


The Rest Is Void

by OfTheRiot



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Character Death, Drugs, Emily is a badass, Everyone has a horrible life, F/F, F/M, Fluff, High Chaos!Emily, Lots of regrets, M/M, Medium Chaos (Dishonored), Murder, Rat Plague | The Doom of Pandyssia, Self Harm, Somehow, Suicide, beloved characters turning into weepers, constant literary references, everyone is kind of a dick, tags updated as i go, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfTheRiot/pseuds/OfTheRiot
Summary: Everything turned red in the lapse of a moment. Her face bathed in red, and the monster dressed in red; and his red, red handprints all over the shattered pieces of a dying world.And he dares ask for mercy.





	1. Postscript

_It is always good men who do the most harm in the world._

_Henry Adams_  


 

He'd swear he can feel his guts beneath his palm, pressed against a wound he can't feel. The pulsing throb could just as well be from his broken fingers, trembling as their strength slips away slowly, inexorably. The lingering poison in his system has the decency to numb the pain, but he has no idea how bad it is, and he can't bring himself to look. As he staggers through the old, narrow sewers under the Flooded District, he absently wonders if he'll live long enough to see the sky.

It hurts. The wounds he can't feel, but walking is agony. The third time he trips on the thick mud and falls, he considers not getting up. He can hear rats grouping somewhere nearby, among the piles of dirt old as Dunwall itself. He's shaking now, cold seeping to the very inside of his bones. He crawls past a flickering floodlight and sees their quick shadows projected on the opposite wall, swarming. There's no way they can't smell the trail of blood. He's vaguely aware of what it means.

It doesn't matter anymore.

_I ask for my life._

The rats move. He can hear the insect-like drum of their tiny claws on the mud. There's an oddly comforting irony in knowing he's about to die, while Daud is still alive. Revenge had been the only thing keeping him sane up until the moment he gave it up. The last promise to cling to.

Now he’s falling.

What did it? He _had_ him. Was it the poison still pumping through his veins like sluggish fire, making his thoughts blur? The unbearable similarity of their movements? He remembers Daud shaking imperceptibly as blood pooled beneath him, wearing the stern resignation of old soldiers who couldn't afford to show fear. His storm grey eyes were completely devoid of the hatred Corvo had expected, even inches away from a blade stained with the blood of his men. Instead, in the open light dimmed by the poison, for just a second, they were the same tired, haunted blue Jessamine's eyes had been.

Had he seen it, the day he killed her? That _exact_ blue, the storm of pain and kindness hidden beneath its cracks? Suddenly, all Corvo wanted was to ask him if he'd looked into Jessamine's eyes before he killed her. He hoped so. He deserved to know what he had destroyed before he-

Then the heart whispered.

Seconds passed like ages. He lowered his blade, feeling like a traitor for the first time since the world decided to impose the title on him, and ran away.

He doesn't know what the heart said. He's been trying to remember since he reached the sewers, but the memory turns to ashes as he tries to grasp it. Instead, he remembers the sickening sound of Daud's blade sinking into Jessamine's flesh. Emily waking up, screaming. The Whalers dead around him, every last one he could find. The blood. They all had Jessamine's voice. 

He keeps crawling, choking agonizing sobs to keep quiet as his wounds drag through the mud. The rush of adrenaline that just got him through half the Flooded District looking for Daud has faded completely now, leaving only exhaustion. He can hear the rats getting closer, and his arms are shaking so much he can barely push himself forward. He's going to die like a gutted pig deep in the entrails of this nightmare city. He thinks of Emily and crawls faster. He pushes himself up, enough to reach a rotting plank leading to higher ground, but his hands slip on the mould. By the time he manages a firm grip the rats are already there. Emily. They reach his legs, screeching, and he thinks of Emily. He needs to get to Emily. He needs to save her. He kicks the planks off the edge and into the mud, but half a dozen rats have already managed to get to him. They bite his hands when he smacks them away, kicking blindly and rolling over himself. His back hits a wall, and when he reaches up he finds some sort of grip, enough leverage to get to his feet and stomp on them instead. The stench of blood fills his nostrils. He doesn't even remember he's armed until the last rat dies with a horrifying crunching noise.

He stands there for a moment, breathing irregularly, shaking. He leans heavily on the wall and turns to step into a different tunnel. He's crying, he realizes. Silent tears run down his cheeks, washing away the dry blood. He's covered in it. He can't remember how many of Daud's men he's killed, in the haze of poison and rage.

For nothing.

"...me out, you rotten hag! You hear me?!"

He stops short.

"Now, now, dear. Don't raise your voice. You'll scare them off."

The tunnel descends into a gallery of raw stone a few steps ahead of him. The voices reverberate in it like a deranged choir, but their silhouettes are just too easy to recognize. His blade is in his hand before he can make a conscious decision to intervene. His instinct tells him to approach in silence, but he trips over his own feet like a child learning to walk, and the voices quieten. Funny thing that his own legs are the last thing to betray him.

"Come out, dear." Granny Rags coos. Corvo's legs move of their own accord, stepping out from the shadows. Slackjaw's eyes light up when he sees him, and he yanks at the cuffs with renewed strength.

"Corvo! Outsider's _balls_ , you couldn't be more welcome! This crazy witch wants to kill me!"

Corvo doesn't react. He's staring at his own hands. The bites are more visible in this light, reddened and swelling. The skin is darkening faster than it's supposed to. He gazes up at Slackjaw with glazed eyes, still holding his blade with a stiff arm. His knuckles are white from gripping it.

He wants to laugh himself to death.

"Oh, you poor thing." Granny Rags mutters. She grabs Corvo's arm with a hand like a claw and presses the other against his forehead. He flinches at first, then stills. "You're running a fever, dear. Come, sit. Sit. I'll make you dinner."

She takes the blade from his hands. He lets her.

"What the fuck are you doing, Corvo?!" Slackjaw roars; it's strident enough to show how terrified he is. "Let me out of here! I know how to kill her! I can get you out of Dunwall! I can make you _rich_!"

He keeps screaming, but Corvo isn't listening. He lets himself be pushed to sit on a rotting crate and presses a shaky hand to the open wound below his stomach, stained with mud and filth. He starts crying again, shoulders shaking quietly, when Granny Rags' bony fingers run once through his hair, soothingly. It hurts. It hurts so much he can't move. His tears are stained with red, and his last rational thought tells him this time it's not just dry blood.

He's never going to get to Emily.

"My, you don't look so well. Poor thing, poor weeping thing." the witch coos. "Don't worry, dear. I'll bring you soup. That will make you better."

Corvo doesn't move when the knife flashes in her hands as she turns her back. He doesn't move when Slackjaw starts screaming, a sound so piercing it doesn't even feel human. It fills the air completely, doesn't leave room for anything else. He stays frozen in place, eyes blown wide and blood dripping down his jaw and between his numb fingers, soaking his clothes and pooling on the floor beneath.

It doesn't matter anymore. None of it. He can't fail anyone else. The world can't break any further.

"Such a quiet way to go, Corvo. For a man like you."

He looks up and sees a familiar silhouette through the red blur. Deep black eyes watch him intently, _waiting_. For him to die, or to ask for help- he can't tell.

"So this is the way the world ends." the soft voice whispers. "Not with a bang, but a whimper."

The Outsider's gentle hand tilts his face upwards. Slackjaw isn't screaming anymore; the distant noise of knife and flesh slows along with time as the Void consumes the room around him. Darkness tugs at him, calling at his bones to go home. The world is red; it has always, it will always be red. But there's a spark of interest in the god's gaze. It brings back a memory through the blur of poison and blood, and suddenly he doesn't have a second to lose.

He needs to get to Emily.

He needs a day- two days. Just enough to save her. Enough to destroy every last one of her enemies.

"Will you surprise me a last time, Corvo?"

He doesn't have any words left. A memory fills the cracks, and he somehow finds his broken voice. The words feel alien in his lips.

"I ask for my life."

The Outsider _grins._

_  
_


	2. Chiasmus

 

Cecelia is the last person Corvo expects to find when he stumbles out of the sticky, sempiternal darkness of the sewers and the sudden light blinds him momentarily. His blade is already halfway to her neck when he realizes who she is, and the momentum makes him stumble when he stops. She spins around with a startled yelp, knocking off the only battered chair in the whole room.

“Oh, Void! Please don’t hurt me!” she blurts out. It takes her a moment to recognize the mask, and she brings a hand to her heart, huffing. “Lord Corvo, I- I’m so sorry, I thought- The Admiral said you were _dead_. How is it possible?”

She reaches out for him, and Corvo steps back, shaking his head energetically. _Don’t._ She blinks, a spark of surprise in her perpetually dismal eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Corvo hesitates.

 

 

“Sir, you need rest. I can handle this.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“I’ll get this sorted in a minute and talk to Stride; some of the Serkonan captains too, maybe. We’ll have a few ships for you to choose from when you wake up -”

“Thomas, I’m wondering.” Daud cuts him off with a grunt, half-leaning on the doorframe to his office to catch his breath. “Have I ever told you to fuck off?”

Thomas doesn’t even hesitate.

“Twice a week, sir.”

“So you must recognise the expression on my face _spelling_ it even before I say it, right?”

“Yessir.”

“Good boy.”

He hears the rustle of him transversing away as he staggers to the centre of the room. His footsteps creak over the debris. He steps over a broken windowframe and gazes up at the broken ceiling, blinking when the sun hits his eyes. He can see a piece of sky, the brightest blue he’s seen in decades.

There’s a new age coming. Old, twisted things won’t have a place in it.

But he’s still here.

He brings a hand to his throat unconsciously, tracing the scarring line where the bodyguard’s blade had drawn blood. He’s been counting the hours since his death. All of this isn’t real- it can’t be. The next time he opens a door the Void will be there, waiting for him. Rotten flesh and wild flowers, and the old temples from Pandyssia calling his name.

It’s not necessarily a bad thought.

He makes his way to his desk. There’s one of his men laying among the rubble next to it, with a single bolt sticking out from a broken glass eye. Scott. He looks away and swipes dust away from his chair before sitting down, moving carefully not to reopen his own wounds.

He looks around and takes in the silent, ruined mess that’s left of his legacy. Here it is, everything he’s built. Destroyed.

He glances at the door, making sure there’s no one around. Then he hides his face in his hands and lets out a single, shaky sigh.

 

 

Corvo can’t take his eyes off the corpses. He kneels next to the cloth bags as Cecelia approaches cautiously. They’ve been marked with the plague warning signs. He can picture Martin drawing them himself, calm and composed as ever. Just another part of the plan.

“Emily was here when it started.” Cecelia keeps explaining. He can tell she’s trying to keep her distance discreetly, but he can’t blame her. “I would have tried to hide her away, but Lord Pendleton insisted she must be present. I’m so sorry.”

Corvo stands without a word. Sokolov is making his way through the yard, sipping from a bottle and occasionally kicking ashes around. The empty uniforms laying on the ground stir eerily with the breeze.

“Boy, am I drunk.” he clears his throat as he reaches them, handing Cecelia the bottle. She accepts it almost by reflex. “You all should be, too. It makes you see the world in a new light.”

“Callista isn’t here.” Corvo mutters.

“Oh my, I almost forgot.” Cecelia says immediately, looking abashed. “The Admiral locked her in Emily’s room. Said something about her uncle-”

“Curnow? A good man, the poor bastard.” Sokolov takes a long sip. Corvo notices he’s wearing new boots, probably an officer’s. He’s too exhausted to care.

“Piero?” he asks plainly.

Sokolov points somewhere over his shoulder.

“Still making adjustments to the arch pylon. I haven’t ever seen a man so in love with something; he might try to bed the damn thing before the day ends.”

Cecelia chokes on the whiskey.

“He has some of my elixir left inside, too.” Sokolov comments just a _little_ too casually. Corvo tenses. The old man’s eyes are unreadable when he turns to meet his gaze, and only shrugs. How does he _know_? “In case you need it where you’re going.”

“That might be a good idea.” Cecelia mutters under her breath. Corvo turns to leave, feeling his mouth dry.

“I’m fine.” he lies as he walks past them, forcing his throat to get the words out. He rests a hand only briefly on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Anton.”

Sokolov catches his hand and shakes it firmly, not a trace of fear in him.

“Take care of yourself out there, Corvo.”

 

 

“Anthony.”

“Crossed.”

“Tynan.”

“Crossed.”

Galia keeps reciting names, her voice colder than ever. Daud can’t tell whether she’s trying to keep herself above all of this or if she’s just furious. He wishes he could be furious. Thomas’ pen scratching against paper disturbs the rhythm of the Whalers piling bodies outside. There’s a thud every time one of them hits the ground.

He tries to pretend his hands aren’t shaking.

“Walter.”

“I saw him transversing away as soon as he saw Attano. I doubt he’ll be coming back.”

“Kill him on sight.” Daud intervenes hoarsely. The other two pause and share a strange look, but they don’t say anything. A couple seconds later they’re back to their work.

“Hobson.”

“Attano threw her off a window, but she’ll live. She’s been trying to sneak away and go murder him. Devon’s with her now.”

“Fisher.”

“He’s… Honestly, I doubt he’ll even get to tomorrow.”

“Should we cross him?”

“Daud?”

“Not yet.” He replies immediately, gaze fixed somewhere on the opposite wall. “I’ll pay him a visit later.”

Thomas nods. Galia turns a page.

“Quinn.”

“Crossed.”

 

 

Callista fires the crossbow as soon as the door opens, but Corvo’s quick enough to dodge the bolt. He shoots her an offended look, but she’s already lowering it, wide-eyed.

“Corvo! We thought you dead!”

“Good morning.” he rasps, stepping inside.

“They took Emily.” she informs quickly, cautiously shooting a glance outside. “I couldn’t stop them. Piero and Sokolov are down in the-“

“Found them.” he says quickly. “Everyone’s okay.”

She frowns.

“Not everyone.” he corrects.

“Samuel seemed convinced you were alive.” she adds in a softer voice. “He’s out in the river, looking for you. Sit down, I’ll give him the signal.”

He nods. She puts a hand on his arm and squeezes gently, watching his eyes.

“Do you need a minute?”

He shakes his head, and she gives him a tired smile and lets go. He doesn’t sit down. If he did, he probably wouldn’t be able to get up again. Instead, he walks over to Emily’s bed, covered in increasingly colourful drawings. He picks up one depicting a great dragon from Pandyssia, surrounded by small figures trying to kill it. She’s getting good at it. The flare launcher goes off smoothly, barely making a sound. He picks up a different drawing, and his heart skips a beat when he recognises Jessamine, smiling at him from the piece of paper. Emily hasn’t drawn her since she got to the Hound Pits. Underneath, she has written a discreet, heartbreaking _‘I miss you’_.

 

 

Fisher’s screams gradually drown the few conversations that have dared spark in the infirmary. Some Whalers pull nervous laughs and try speaking louder, but in the end they fall silent too. None of them leave.

“Fisher. _Fisher_.” Daud hisses, holding his head up. His hands are stained with blood. “Look at me. Don’t close your eyes.”

The shaky boy tries to speak and chokes on his own blood, clenching his eyes shut.

“I can’t!-“

“Look at me, dammit. It’s an _order_.”

“I can’t! _I can’t! Void it hurts it hurts stoppit!-“_

He’s too pale, too cold. Too young. The bone charm hisses against his stomach where the skin is purple and swollen, too tender to the touch. He’s bleeding inside, and the magic is too fucking _slow_. He tries to squirm away, crying and vomiting blood.

“Daud-“

“It’s okay. Fisher- _Oliver_ , look at me. It’s okay.”

“Daud I can’t see I can’t see-“

His entire body lurches. He throws up dark blood all over both of them, choking and struggling to breathe. Somewhere behind him, Rinaldo covers his mouth with a hand and looks away.

“It’s okay.” Daud lets go of the charm and holds him tightly, trying to contain the spasms. His eyes are pure steel. “It’ll stop hurting in a moment. I promise.”

“I’m sorry.” The boy manages to mumble. “I’m sorry…“

 He stops talking. Soon after, he stops shaking. Daud holds him for a long, unbearable moment, as his breathing grows heavier and stops with a ragged rattle. Then he sets him down carefully, trying not to look into his empty, open eyes. He stands and pulls off his gloves, clearing his throat to fight the lump in it.

“Thomas.” he calls brusquely. His second jumps to his feet.

“Sir?”

“Handle this.”

No one moves as he turns to leave. He pushes the doors open with more strength than strictly necessary, and the echo of the screams follows him into the silence. He can feel the eyes on his back.

_Weak._

He doesn’t know what’s worse; guilt or relief. His men are dead, and he’s so _glad to be alive._

 

 

It’s already late afternoon when they reach the flooded alleys behind the Chamber of Commerce. A weeper watches them from dry ground, following the boat with bloodstained eyes. Corvo’s gaze is drawn to him. The cracked skin. The hanging jaw.

“Don’t torture yourself, Corvo.” Samuel sighs. “We’ll worry when the time comes.”

“How long?” he retorts sombrely, reaching for his mask.

“Hell if I know.” Samuel shrugs while he adjusts the cinches. “They say a week, but I’ve seen people turn into weepers overnight. You’re a strong man, though. Days, maybe.”

They move in silence through the dark water. He can’t help the tension in his shoulders, ready to jump at the slightest stir. The stench of plague and stagnant water is driving him insane.

“Stop here.” he mutters after a while, holding a hand up. “I’ll be back soon.”

Samuel nods once.

“If there’s trouble I’ll be back at the Avenue.” He looks up and adds, “Be careful around that man, Corvo. He’s had time to think. He might be waiting for you.”

“He better.”

He blinks up to a balcony, then jumps to the window above. His hand tingles on the handle of his blade.

 

 

He’s been in his office for hours, doing absolutely nothing, as if they had the _time_. Stride will have a boat ready for them at dawn, and they still have to take care of the bodies. He refuses to leave them here to rot.

He lights another cigarette and stares at it as if it could give him the answers he’d kill for.

Why the hell is he still alive?

Why did he _ask_ to be? He’d heard stories, sure. Attano hadn’t killed a single person with that mask on. There was Lady Boyle, of course- not even he has been able to figure out that one. And they’d found at least two dozen weepers dead on the streets, killed by a single shot to the head. But the ones who deserved it, the ones who _betrayed him_ , they were all dealt with quickly and without spilling a single drop of blood.

Enough to give him hope. A ship back home, a couple decades away from all of this. No more death. Just so Thomas and the rest could start again before they ended up like Billie or him.

Up until he saw them all dead, at least.

But in truth, he’d already accepted his death long before Attano put a foot on his office. He’d been waiting for it, counting the days, wondering what was taking him so long. A way out from Dunwall, from the plague and the Empress’ eyes watching him day and night from behind his desk. No more seeing Billie out of the corner of his eye when he moved through the roofs. No more accusing looks searing _weak_ _old man_ into the back of his head every time he noticed his hands were shaking. He'd rather be gone before he got slow and his eyes began to fail, before he had to admit his heart had given him more than one scare lately. He was finished. It happened to everyone in this business. He knew this day would come.

He wanted to die. Attano wanted to kill him. Then both of them had changed their minds, and now the world is even more broken than it was before.

Something creaks outside the window to his left. He tenses only for an instant before blowing smoke through his teeth, leaning back as if he’s heard nothing. His right hand creeps towards his blade beneath the desk and stays there.

When the window shatters and Attano lunges towards him, he’s waiting for him. His back hits the ground painfully, and their blades clang above his head. He disappears with a rustle and aims a bolt to the head from behind. The _bastard_. He’s back to finish what he started.

He only has time to feel the air being sucked out of the room as time stops around them before Attano hits him on the stomach with all his weight, shoving him against the floor. The enemy blade aims for his throat, but he grabs Attano’s wrist in time to stop it right above his skin.

“You fucking _bastard!_ ” he barks. “They were following orders! You don’t kill _Campbell_ and you kill _them_?!”

He kicks him away with a roar, and Attano stumbles back.

“I should have killed you.” he grunts from beneath the mask.

It makes his blood boil.

“Half of them were _kids_!”

Their blades meet again. They’re not even using magic now, running solely on rage as they fight. His wounds have reopened, but from the way he staggers back he can tell Attano’s injured too. His arms shake with the clash of steel, and before he knows it he’s pushed the bastard against the edge of the broken window and disarmed him with a blow to his wrist. They freeze, panting face to face. Daud’s blade falters on the piece of vulnerable skin under the mask.

“What do you want?” he spits. He’s giving him time to react, and he _hates_ himself for it. A blink and a single bullet and he’ll be dead on the floor, and the world will be back into place. He deserves it. _He’ll ask for it like he asked for his life if he has to-_

“I should have killed you.” Corvo repeats. “But I didn’t. Now you owe me.”

_What?_

He hesitates.

“I don’t owe you shit.”

“I need your help”.

This is even worse than he’d imagined.

“My help for what?”

Corvo pushes his arms away, but doesn’t make any sudden moves as he stands away from the window. He’s breathing heavily, but –and he’s surprised he only noticed that now- there’s no fresh blood on his clothes. No open wound. And still, he looks like he’s about to collapse.

Then he takes off his mask, looks up at him with brown eyes dripping red. Daud’s mouth goes dry.

“Oh, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to go down.


	3. Stanza

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Corvo glares at him wordlessly as he sits on the desk. He’s exhausted, and it’s visible. There’s dry blood on his cheeks and the inside of his mask, with slow trickles of fresher red running over it. Daud somehow still finds the time to be horrified by how gaunt he looks, pale and haggard, much older than he remembers. He’s painfully thin too, as if he’d never gotten out of Coldridge at all. Perhaps he still hasn’t, he muses grimly.

“You’re a Void-damned _weeper._ ” he hisses.

“Watch your mouth.” Corvo growls.

It’s a threat, but his voice lacks strength. This isn’t the Terror of Dunwall; it’s not even the bloodthirsty hurricane of a man he fought barely a day ago. Just a tired, unlucky bastard trying to salvage what’s left of a colossal mess.

“How long left?”

Corvo dismisses the question with a vague gesture of his hand, but his eyes harden.

“Days. Less. Who cares? I don’t need long. But my daughter is in danger.”

“So she _is_ your daughter.”

“They’ve retreated to Kingsparrow Island.” Corvo continues coldly, ignoring him. “They’re desperate, and they might be expecting me. If I make a single mistake they’ll want to bring the Kaldwin bloodline down with them. I’m too weak to do this alone.”

Daud lets out a dry laugh.

“A single man couldn’t assault Kingsparrow on his best day. Not even with the Mark.”

“Perhaps not _you_.”

“If you really think I’m going to help you-”

“You asked for your life.” Corvo cuts him sharply, raising his ragged voice. It seems painful, but his eyes are cold fire, and Daud rests a finger on the wristbow trigger instinctively. “After what you _did_. And I spared you.”

“Well, that makes it even then!” Daud pulls a wild grin, sarcasm seeping from his words. “Take a seat. Help yourself to a fucking glass of Tyvian red while I bury my people.”

Corvo’s on his feet again with a growl, standing barely inches away from him.

“Every single breath you take belongs to me.” he barks. “You will do _anything I fucking ask you to._ ”

“Or what?”  

“Or I’ll cut the throat of every Whaler left in Dunwall and make you watch.”

That’s all it takes. Daud shoves him backwards, and the next second they’re crashing against his bookshelf, trying to claw each other’s eyes out. Well. At least they’ve proven they can’t have a conversation lasting longer than a minute without resorting to murder. He hits the floor among a cascade of books, and spins in time to kick the Lord Protector’s legs from beneath him. The next second he has his hands around his throat.

“You’re not getting _anywhere_ near them, you hear me?” He spits, his voice frozen steel. Corvo claws at his hands with a furious growl, trying to kick at his stomach. “Never again. Fuck both our morals, Attano. Fuck your dead Empress. I’ll bring you down with me before you touch a single _hair_ -“

Suddenly, there’s a rustle of Void somewhere to their right.

“Daud, Thomas said we- _Fuck_!”

He turns in time to see Marco firing. The bolt hits the empty space Corvo had occupied an instant before. The Whaler steps back, alert, and Daud sees the bodyguard’s silhouette materializing behind him, closing his arms around his neck. Oh, no, he _won’t._ He’s transversing in the lapse of a second, shoving him away. Corvo grabs his arm in the last moment and _blinks_. They hit the floor together. The battered wood gives away, and suddenly they’re crashing down through the ceiling of the infirmary, landing in a mess of splinters. The Whalers in the room jolt on their feet, stumbling away. He grabs Attano’s hand and smashes it against the floor once, twice, until he lets go of his blade, and hears the _click_ of a dozen triggers ready to fire.

“Don’t shoot!” he barks, and his men freeze in place. Corvo stirs beneath him, coughing blood, and curls over himself when Daud lets go of him, backing away instinctively. “Stay away. He’s got the plague.”

His thoughts roar mixed strategies as he stands, panting, and tosses the bodyguard’s blade to the side. Thomas catches it without a word. There’s a moment of horrified silence as the Whalers wait for the monster shaking on the floor to get up and lunge at them. But he doesn’t.

He should kill him. He should put a bullet in his skull and then do the same to himself, and finish this neverending disaster of a story.  

“What are you waiting for?” Hobson hisses from where she’s lying, pointlessly struggling to get to her feet. “Cut his throat.”

“That’d be mercy.” Daud states coldly. “You know how they die.”

“Sir.” Thomas intervenes weakly. “I think it’d be best to make sure.”

Corvo growls, and several Whalers back away automatically, clutching their blades.

“He’s right.” he hisses. “I’ll be throwing my lungs out in a matter of days. Rotting in an alley, eating rat guts.”

He tries to push himself off the ground with shaky arms. The Whalers back further away, but Daud doesn’t stop him. He can barely stand up, and they both know. He’s surprised he hasn’t turned into a weeper yet.

“Give me a single reason not to throw you out with the rest of the filth.” he says anyways, gritting his teeth. Corvo actually _laughs_. It’s a terrible sound, guttural and broken.

“You already took everything from me.” he breathes, and for once there’s actual pain in his voice.

Hobson lets out a disbelieving huff, wide-eyed.

“The fucking bastard! He bashes my little brother’s head open and comes here calling poetic justice!”

“You want me dead. I’m already dying.” Corvo rasps out, glaring at her. “A slow, agonizing death. The kind of death you’d want to avoid for yourself.”

“Now he’s threatening us?! Kill him already, Outsider’s sake! What the fuck is _wrong_ with you, Daud?!”

“Emily Kaldwin.” Corvo raises his voice hoarsely as he pushes himself to his knees. “The little girl you kidnapped. Daughter of the woman you murdered and the man you left to be tortured for months in a dark cell. _My_ daughter. Empress of the Isles. The little girl who holds the Navy and the Watch in one hand and the Abbey of the Everyman in the other. And yet for some reason you seem to believe she won’t _remember_ what you did.”

There’s a grim silence following his words as their meaning sinks down on them, and suddenly revenge seems slightly less alluring.

The worst part, Daud muses sourly, is that he’s fucking _right._ His face is printed all over Dunwall. They’d have to scatter over the Isles and cut the Arcane Bond to avoid being found, even if they leave the city before dawn. The Kaldwin girl will have Overseers patrolling every corner of the known world, and if they find even just one of them-

He’s seen what they do to heretics.

“We can take care of ourselves.” he grunts anyways, forcing himself to sound convinced. Corvo laughs again, sending a chill down his spine.

“I’ll get you a royal pardon.” he continues erratically, managing to stagger to his feet. “All of you. You can go wherever you want and stay together. No one will stop you. All I ask is that you help me get to my daughter. And I hope you remember” he adds in a hiss, “that she’ll be an orphan before the end of the week. That she’ll see both her parents die before her eyes because you thought you could use the extra money. And that I won’t even be able to hug her a last time before I die. Because of _you_. And yet here you are, alive and well. So if you feel the urge to stab me in the back while we do this, remember I could have done worse.”

There’s silence, again. Hobson is shaking, her face contorted in rage.

“He’s lying.”

“We should consider it.” Galia intervenes cautiously.

“What?! How dare you?!”

“Daud?” Thomas searches his gaze hesitantly. They’re all looking at him now, he notices. Waiting for an order. Attano puts his mask back on with sloppy fingers, not bothering to stay alert.

And it’s all up to him again, isn’t it? He hasn’t gotten a single decision right in months, and now here he is again, standing on the edge of the abyss, about to pull everything he cares about with him when he falls. The Outsider must be having the time of his life.

He can see Billie standing on the edge of his vision, staring at him with dead eyes and his sword still plunged into her heart.

 _You started this,_ she says without moving her lips. _Now finish it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a single long-ish chapter, but the cut seemed anticlimatic. So now there's two (yay). I'll post the second part later today, given that I don't die from the angst.


	4. Allegory

The guard tosses his cigarette over the edge of the railing and spits to accompany it, hoping it’ll hit someone on the way down. Lost raindrops wet his boots and catch on his hair, and there's a cold like the end of the world. The day can hardly get worse.

“Isn’t Curnow supposed to be here?” Captain Vimes asks somewhere behind his back. He shrugs.

“Must have lost the ship.”

“I swear to the Void, if I have to go through this myself-“

He falls silent abruptly. The guard turns around in time to see him collapse without a sound. He reaches for his pistol, startled, but strong arms close around his neck and throw him over the railing.

He _does_ hit someone on the way down.

Corvo watches him fall with a mumbled curse. There’s shouting for a moment, but it stops with a single bolt shot from nowhere. Lightning crosses the sky. It could have been thunder. It could have been a whole lot of things.

 _He had a daughter_ , the Heart whispers from the inside of his coat, making him shudder. He reminds himself these men watched as Havelock dragged Emily kicking and screaming into the lighthouse. They looked away and spoke louder when Campbell made him scream until he lost his voice, blurring night and day into an endless nightmare. They burned the sick alive in the streets, left their children to starve and die. Threw them into the piles of corpses still breathing.

He reminds himself of what happens when you let people live.

They come back.

He sees a red silhouette from the corner of the eye, shifting through the heavy rain over the battlements. Two more guards collapse without a sound. He turns front and pulls himself to the top of the booth, taking in the slow changing beast that is the fort before him. The rain hinders catching the guards' footsteps, but it also plays in their favour. There’s a watchtower turning sluggishly at his back, still close enough to be a problem. He’s breathing irregularly, struggling to focus his eyes every time the Void tugs at his strength. Sokolov’s elixir has proven more useful than he initially hoped for, but he knows it won’t do much good in the long run. At least he’s not spitting blood anymore.

He runs instead of blinking, jumps to reach this side of the battlements and perches himself on top, waiting. Daud materializes next to him with a rustle.

“There’s shooting inside." he informs flatly, with rain dripping down his nose. “Martin and Pendleton are having a lovers’ quarrel in the courtyard. If we’re lucky they’ll shoot each other without even noticing us.”

“I want them dead.”

Daud frowns, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“There’s at least two dozen guards in the fort. We don’t have enough men to take them down without casualties.”

“I want them dead.” Corvo repeats hoarsely, turning to give him a steely glare. “And I want them to see me.”

“Fuck’s sake, Attano.” Daud hisses, fighting the urge to punch him again. “Havelock is in the lighthouse. We don’t have time for this.”

“They’re already shooting each other. He won’t notice the difference.” Corvo stands, and the next second he’s blinking away in a rush of blue. Daud curses under his breath and follows him. They reappear further inside the fort, keeping to the shadows. Lightning flashes over them, killing the penumbra, and a guard stumbles back barely feet away from them, reaching for his sword. Corvo’s blade slits his throat before he can open his mouth to call for help. The man collapses with an eerie gurgle as the voices in the courtyard grow higher.

“…that the best you can do?! You disappoint me, Martin!”

He follows Corvo as they move alongside the wall, watching the scene unfold at their feet. Martin obviously has the upper hand, and it’s no surprise. He spots an Overseer carrying one of those revolting music boxes standing with him, along with a bunch of guards. They’ll have to take care of that first.

“Why don’t you come down and settle this man to man?” Martin raises his voice and lowers his pistol. Some of the guards laugh.

“The view is nice up here, I’m not moving!” Pendleton retorts stridently. His voice wavers. He’s wounded, probably a shot. He won’t be much trouble. Martin, though-

He doesn’t even have time to utter a warning before Corvo vanishes from his side. He stares at the empty space with a disbelieving grunt. Pendleton starts laughing.

“That’s it! I told you he’d be back! We’re all dead men!”

“Attano, you fucking _idiot_.” Daud spits, jumping over the railing. 

 

 

The Admiral has been muttering to himself for a while now, holding a glass of whiskey with unstable fingers as he stares pointedly at the fireplace, gaze lost in the flames. The inside of the lighthouse is a memorial raised to ambition, ridiculously luxurious in comparison with the rest of the fort. Burrows' statue watches him from its place in the main hall with an empty, golden gaze, as if waiting for something.

“We almost made it, you know?” Havelock murmurs, completely still. “We could have made it.”

“Corvo will bring me your head.” Emily replies calmly from where she is, sitting at a table not designed to be this empty. She has her fingers tangled neatly over it, watching the door expectantly. “Then I’ll ask for the others'.”

“The others are dead, girl.” he retorts. “Or they will be soon.”

“Then we'll just have to drag them to the guillotine.”

Havelock pulls a short, mirthless laugh.

“You would have made a fine Empress.”

He turns around, and there’s something in his eyes that reminds her of better days. Long, quiet afternoons in the Hound Pits Pub waiting for Corvo to come back from a mission. The first time he'd left, Emily had spent hours crying, convinced he would die or get arrested and never come back. Because they pitied her, or because her tantrums were bordering on the insufferable, everyone had tried to cheer her up in their own ways. Lydia had brought her a doll that had belonged to a daughter whose fate was uncertain. Piero had wanted to show her how to blow up a rat with a single drop of whale oil, but Callista had threatened to strangle him if he tried. Wallace and Lord Pendleton had ignored her completely. Cecelia had taught her sailor knots, and Samuel had told her ghost stories about the Wrenhaven and the oceans beyond.

And then, at some point, she had run into Overseer Martin and the Admiral playing chess.

Admiral Havelock had stated very politely that young girls had better things to do than bother him -or as he put it, waste their time playing boring games-, but Martin had been delighted to show off his skills. He taught her the basics and listed the moves he made, even bothering to explain his strategies before he had finished pulling them off.

And still, he won. Every time. It always happened, no matter who he played against. They knew exactly what was coming, and they couldn't do anything to prevent it. Havelock frowned and came up with bolder tactics, to no use. Sokolov laughed and tried to be unpredictable, but in the end he saw his king fall with a mix of awe and worry.  Piero only played once, and began to sweat so much towards the end she thought he'd drop dead as soon as he lost.

So she watched, fascinated, and learned in silence. Then one day she decided to list the moves herself as Havelock lost for the umpteenth time that week, not failing once. The two men had found it incredibly amusing, and that evening Martin agreed to play a single game against her.

“This,” he explained, pointing at two pieces, “is what you do when you want to open a way through the pawns.”

 

“Guards! To me!”

Corvo lunges at Martin, but the other is expecting him. Their swords clash, and the Overseer stumbles back with the force of it, pulling a furious grimace. He fires his pistol right at Corvo's head, but the bodyguard isn’t there when the bullet reaches him.

“What are you waiting for? Kill him!” Martin shouts, but when he turns his head his anger gives in to a sickening paleness. The Whalers let go of the dead guards without a word, broken necks and open throats. Daud lets the last of them fall to the ground with a dull thud and looks up at him with a wild spark on his grey eyes. A half smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Good evening, High Overseer.”

Lightning flashes high in the sky. The storm rages. Martin turns around and runs.

 

"You want your bishop close to the king, and so does your opponent." Martin picked up a different piece, one of Emily's, and slid it over the board. "But sooner of later that'll make him careless."

Emily watched attentively as he toppled the black bishop with an amused smile.

 

Corvo reappears like a flash in front of Martin, blocking his way up the stairs. The Overseer backs away like a cornered animal, surrounded, clutching his sword at his side. Pendleton's piercing laughter washes over them from the gatehouse.

"You're not so brave now -are you, Martin?!"

"I knew this was coming." the Overseer spits, taking a single step back. He presses the barrel of his pistol under his jaw with a fluid motion, eyes burning with a terrible light. Corvo watches him in perfect silence, lightning sparkling on the macabre edges of his mask. "I'll give the Outsider your regards."

Pendleton starts singing a sailors' drinking song, voice thick with alcohol. The words are drowned by the shot.

 

"Now, the crook I'm not too fond of." Martin hummed, tapping a finger distractedly on it. "Although I'll admit it is often underestimated. But we have to make sacrifices."

Emily took the cue and moved one of her knights, knocking down the crook with a delighted chuckle.

 

" _Feed him to the hungry rats for dinner!_  
_Feed him to the hungry rats for dinner,_  
_early in the morning!"_

More guards are coming, alerted by the yelling, and now they've seen them. Daud tugs at Corvo's arm with a curse and transverses away. They reach the gatehouse in a storm of bullets, falling through the partially collapsed wall and rolling gracelessly on the floor.

"Now!"

The Whalers fall over the guards from thin air, and the shouts get mixed with screams. Corvo groans in pain suddenly, bending over on his knees and coughing violently as blood drips through the needles stuck on his mask. Pendleton's bodyguard has already recovered from the momentary shock, and aims for his head with a beastly grunt. Daud's sword pierces through his arm in time to deviate the shot. A piece of ceiling crumbles on them, blinding the bodyguard for an instant- it's all it takes for Daud to shoot a bolt straight into his neck.

Pendleton's still singing, grinning widely as he waves an arm in time with the verses, spilling wine all over his red-stained clothes until it's impossible to tell what's blood and what isn't. Daud's gaze snaps to the door when he hears heavy boots stomping on the stairs. He runs to the door with a raging growl and opens his arms, pulling at all the furniture in the room with the strength of the Void as he crashes his palms together, blocking the threshold. Someone hits the door brutally.

"Open up immediately! You've nowhere to go!"

"Emily." Corvo blurts out on the floor, his eyes suddenly full of fear. He's shaking violently. "We need to get to Emily-"

" _Shoot him through the heart with a loaded pistol!_  
_Shoot him through the heart with a loaded pistol_  
_early in the morning!"_

"Shut up!" Daud roars, spinning around to aim at Pendleton. The man gives him a pathetic, bloodstained smile. He sees the light in Jessamine Kaldwin's eyes fading as she falls. Billie collapsing on a pool of her own blood. The swarms of rats devouring the city from the core. His Whalers, dead, burning in a pile of corpses.

All of this. _All of this._

"Care for a drink, Knife of Dunwall?" Pendleton offers shakily. The bottle slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor. "Look at us. You're next."

 

"The black king." Martin muttered, not bothering to hide the ghost of a smirk playing on his features. He brushed a finger to his lips momentarily as he watched the board, considering his next move. "So close and yet... We don't have many pieces left. This might still get interesting."

 

"Move, you stupid girl!" Havelock orders brusquely, dragging her up the stairs. The storm has disarrayed his hair, throwing soaked dark strands over the deranged, desperate glint to his eyes. "This ends here! For all of us!"

"No! Let me go!" Emily kicks and struggles with all the strength she can muster, burning with rage. "I'm the Empress! I'll have you executed!"

"You're nothing!" he shouts right to her face. "Didn't you learn nothing in your short life? Empresses are pieces on a _board_! None of this matters anymore! The city's ruined! The plague will take us all!"

"Corvo's going to kill you! He's coming to save me!"

The Admiral throws his head back and laughs and unhinged, croaky sound.

"Oh, child. If I know one thing about Corvo Attano, is that he's _shit_ at saving Empresses."

 

"I can't do it." Corvo heaves, struggling to breathe. He's clinging to Daud now, shaking spasmodically as his feet slip on the steel steps, paler than ever. Blood flows freely from his eyes, soaking the front of his coat. "I can't. I'm not going to get to her-"

"Shut up and keep walking." Daud grunts. "Come on, bodyguard. You've come this far."

"Why are you helping me?" Corvo breathes, grimacing in agony. "Why are you- bothering?"

"Because you were right. I owe you." Daud snaps back, tugging at him. "And I owe _her._ Now _move_."

He clenches his fist with a roar. The lighthouse door crashes open.

"Corvo!"

His gaze follows the sound. The stairs. He sees a flash of white disappear past the first turn of steps that blocks their sight. The coward is taking the girl to the top of the lighthouse.

"Emily." Corvo croaks out, shaking Daud's hands off violently and staggering forward as he raises a flinched hand towards the stairs. "Emily!"

" _Corvo!_ " the girl calls from even further away. Corvo roars, and the Mark flares bright on the back of his hand. He blinks forward, clinging to the banister as he half-runs, half-collapses forward. Daud follows immediately behind, watching his every move, waiting for the moment he runs out of strength. Havelock is barely steps away from them now, but Corvo finally trips over his own feet when the power of the Void runs out and slides down the steps messily, covered in blood. Daud catches him before he hits the stairs.

"Attano, wait! _Wait!_ "

" _EMILY_!" Corvo screams, voice torn and desperate, trying to crawl away from him. "You monsters, both of you! Get away from her! _GET AWAY FROM HER!"_

"You're _dying_ , you useless piece of shit!" Daud snarls, letting go of him as he allows the Void to pull at his bones. "I'll bring her! Don't move or I'll gut you myself!"

He transverses before he can make sure he's even listening, but they don't have the time. He lands on the last flight of stairs and rushes forward, but Havelock's voice stops him short.

"Don't move or I blow her brains out!"

He's pulled Emily against him on the highest ledge above the waves, kicking and screaming but too weak to get away. Daud lets out a shaky breath, cursing himself for being so _slow._ The storm rages above them, and when lightning strikes he could swear he can see a pair of black eyes watching from behind the clouds, far where the horizon meets the bellowing ocean.

He's terrified.

Another Empress. Another bloody mess. It's not like he's not done this before. He just has to run away and let the world collapse on itself. This time he'll make sure to get far enough before it does.

Havelock steps back, almost toppling over the edge. Emily screams Corvo's name.

He's only got one shot left. His hands are shaking, and he feels a wave of dread seep into his bones. Not now. _Not now_. He breathes as time slows down around himself, strides forward and fires.

 

"I can't move any of my knights!" Emily groaned, visibly displeased. Martin laughed, propping his chin on one hand. The game was close to its end, and Emily's pieces were all in immediate danger.

"Keep thinking, little lady. There's rarely no way to pull a last card."

Emily frowned.

 

He misses. He fucking _misses_. The bolt sinks into Havelock's good arm, pulling a pained cry out of him. He lets out his breath like a death rattle, and lowers his wristbow. He doesn't even consider running.

It's over.

"Let go of me!" Emily roars, managing to kick at Havelock's stomach. He stumbles back dangerously, injured, and she turns around forcibly to grab his arm with both hands. The Admiral snarls  a curse as his pistol tilts upwards towards himself. Emily's eyes are dark fire under the rain. "I am the Empress, and I _never lose!!_ "

She yanks at the trigger with a raging howl. There's a gunshot like thunder.

 

Emily's small fingers picked up the next piece. Her white queen slid over the board and reached the black king, standing alone on the edge of the board. Martin laughed, pleasantly surprised.

"You figured it out!"

Emily smiled and knocked down the king with a quick move.

"Checkmate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter is my favourite so far.
> 
> Things will get quieter after this -for a while, at least. The war is over. Now it's time to pick up the pieces.


	5. Paradox

 

 

Getting out of the lighthouse feels familiar in an ominous way. Emily tries to run towards Corvo as soon as she spots him, but the man is already vomiting blood like he's seconds away from turning into a weeper. Daud catches her in time and drags her away as she tries to claw at his face, screaming the many ways she'll have him executed until he manages to render her unconscious. Apparently a simple hanging won't be enough.

 _Would it?,_ Billie offers his own reflected thoughts from where she's leaning against Burrow's statue as he walks past it. She's smiling a terrible smile.

There's silence in the courtyard. He doesn't spot any Whaler among the rain-soaked corpses, and relief does a good job replacing his own tormented visions. It could have been worse. If Attano doesn't get to the morning, at least he won't have let more of them die for nothing.

"Déjà-vu." Zachary comments with a sardonic edge as soon as he hands him the unconscious girl. Daud grunts.

"Attano's inside agonizing. We don’t have long. Knock him out if you have to and bring him to the boat when you've finished with the guards."

"There are no guards left. We sent the survivors to the Tower to spread word that Havelock is sleeping with the fishes." Zachary pulls out his mask with a relieved huff, breathing in fresh air. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. "Will he live? Those pardons would be like a dream come true. It almost seems _too_ good."

"He better. Still, try not to breathe next to him."

"No breathing. Got it."

"And put the damn mask on."

Lizzy Stride welcomes him back with a crooked grin and a heartfelt handshake. She doesn't comment on the feverish shape of the delirious Royal Protector being carried by two men into the _Undine_ , although she whistles through her teeth when he throws up blood on the boarding plank. She's oddly delighted, but he can't really blame her. Attano's been insufferably invincible since he first got to the city. Until now.

"Shit. He's actually got the plague." she comments with a sharp snort, leaning on the railing in front of her cabin door. She's never minded the rain, and now it runs messily down her soaked clothes. "I thought you were pullin' my leg."

"I haven't made a joke in twenty years." he replies from the relative shelter of the doorframe as he fumbles for his lighter.

"You liar."

"I don't get paid to be funny."

Stride bites her lip thoughtfully. It's strange to see an expression on her face that doesn't spell immediate action, even if it lasts less than two seconds.

"I'll give you ha'penny." she grins, pressing a coin to his chest with a flourish. He can't keep an amused smile off his lips.

"You can't afford me." he chuckles, reaching for his cigarette case. The lighter's flame wavers weakly in the chilly wind; it casts flickering shadows over his features when he covers it with his fingers. Stride shrugs.

"For a quickie behind my desk, then."

"You don't have a _desk_."

"No one's ever minded that before."

"Why are you trying so hard, Lizzy?" he lowers his voice only slightly and blows a puff of smoke. She pulls an awful grimace. He just caught her cheering him up; it must piss her off immeasurably.

"It's not like you. Assaulting the best fort this side of the world to rescue the Empress herself. Getting involved." She glances at the river as they sail off; the floor lurches once beneath their feet, and she has to grab the lamp hanging above her door before it hits her head. "You can't just disappear after shit like this. And whatever it is the Lord Protector promised to do for you, he ain't gonna be able to. Shit, I'm not even sure he _plans_ to. I mean- leading you straight into Dunwall Tower looks like a pretty cheap trick."

He stares blankly at her for a moment.

"Look, it's not like I have much to lose."

Lizzy hisses a pained groan, as if he's the stupidest man alive.

"You old fuck, that's what _worries_ me."

 

 

The storm doesn't relent until they're well into the Wrenhaven, silently slipping past the spotlights as they head for Dunwall Tower. The clouds begin to retreat after that, but the heavy rain still manages to soak them all as they make their way to the palace. Corvo's halfway to taking his coat off to cover Emily when he remembers the bloody mess it is, and his brow furrows even more. In the end it's Thomas who throws his jacket over the sleeping girl and keeps walking in his vest, shaking like an idiot under the rain.

It's taken all the elixir left in the _Undine_ for Corvo to recover enough to walk with some help, and in the end they had to make him swallow it, but he's the only reason they can stand here unharmed. He barks orders with his ragged voice, and the guards let them in reluctantly -but they don't question him. Power’s been changing hands too fast lately. Word's on the streets that the Empress' murder might have just a few too many versions to take them for granted. Besides, many of them have the arguable honour of having woken up piled inside a trash bin after one of Corvo's missions. When a hooded shadow with a face like death itself jumps on you from empty air, waking up the morning after with a mere headache is an exercise in gratitude.

Still, until Emily wakes up and things get sorted out, this is basically a coup. The guards don't let go of their swords, and they keep close watch of them as they cross the colossal doors leading to the throne room, stiff and alert, standing close to each other. They all tense when Daud passes them by, scrutinizing each and every face under their ugly helmets.

He can easily imagine what they're thinking. That's the Knife of Dunwall himself, and those are the Void-damned Whalers. Strolling right into Dunwall Tower. And that's _Corvo Fucking Attano_ -as far as they know, the man who murdered the Empress and overthrew the entire government all in the same year, in company of declared assassins. Two hours ago they'd be trying to shoot them all dead. But there's no one giving orders anymore. Burrows and Havelock are both dead, and they're angry and confused in a way characteristic to men who aren't used to making decisions. None of them wants to be the first to make a move, because there's the very disturbing possibility that no one will follow.

So they might just as well wait it out.

These men are way more afraid of him than he is of them. And still, he can't shake the feeling that it will all end up being an absurdly elaborated trap. The few Whalers who accompany him are alert, emanating tension with every tiny move. Lizzy's words and his own street kid instinct haunt him equally, screaming at him to turn around and run. One doesn't simply take an evening _walk_ into the lion's den and hope for the best. But Corvo's in a miserable shape, the guards are a second away from shitting themselves every time he locks eyes with one of them, and there are no Overseers around. He has more Whalers watching the Tower from strategic corners from the inside out, waiting for the tiniest sign of danger. They have the Void. They have enough grenades to blow up half the palace in a matter of seconds. He reminds himself yet again why the entire pantomime is worth it; he's repeated it enough times that it's starting to make sense.

And _still._

Perhaps it just seems to good to be true. Things are never this easy. People are never this _honest_.

"I think she's having a nightmare." Thomas informs in a murmur as Emily stirs in his arms, curling over herself as if cowering away from something. Daud's jawline hardens. "Should I wake her up?"

"She'd probably try to kill us."

"It's becoming a trend, sir."

Corvo's requested to speak directly to Curnow. The man addresses him with a profound respect that surprises Daud. The Navy's rebelling, he explains; refusing to take any orders until they find Havelock's body and confirm his demise -not even from the Empress. The Overseers are forming in Holger Square. News of Burrows’ death are travelling fast. The people are rioting in Morley, and Theodanis Abele has the Serkonan military on hold, ready to hop into a hundred ships if necessary. Corvo spits out curses Daud himself hasn't heard in decades, up until he has to cover his mouth to stop the blood from infecting Curnow -who takes a single quick step away from him, but doesn't seem particularly alarmed. The man has seen some shit in the streets. They speak quickly, quietly. Then Curnow turns to speak to the officers, and Corvo heads for the stairs to the upper floor, motioning for the Whalers to follow him. No one tries to stop them, but dozens of eyes follow them as they disappear around the corner.

Corvo hasn't said a word to any of them since, and Daud still hasn't been able to look him in the eye. At some point he starts coughing again. He has to stop and lean on a wall for more than a few minutes, staining his hands red. It's a darker colour this time, almost a sickening brown. He stares at his fingers for a stern moment, then mutters:

"Dismiss your men."

He keeps walking without waiting for Daud -although at the speed he's moving that's not much of a problem. He shoots Thomas a quick glance and reaches for Emily's small form, holding her as far away from his body as he can manage; his second bows slightly. With a gesture of his hand the Whalers transverse away in a stir of black.

They go over the last flights of stairs alone, not quite keeping the other company. There's a thick, heavy silence hanging around them that kills any attempt for words. Too much poisoned familiarity; too many unsaid threats. The rain is stopping outside, but there's no sun behind it anymore. Moonlight follows them across the empty corridors leading to the Empress' chambers, perfectly tidy as if untouched by time. Emily's still unconscious when they set her carefully on her bed. Corvo can't do it himself, and the pain of it so obvious it contorts his whole expression. He almost allowed himself to touch her face twice since he woke up, but his fingers simply stop mid-air before falling back at his side.

Daud's only seen this place sketched in maps, but he already knows where they're heading when Corvo walks over to a wall apparently leading nowhere. The spark of metal flashes on his hand as he pushes his knuckles into an imperceptible opening in the dark stone next to Jessamine's personal library. It slides into the wall with a smooth arch.

"You don't look surprised." the Lord Protector mutters without looking at him.

"I spent months studying the tower." Daud replies cautiously, eyeing the rows of Serkonan daggers hanging from one of the walls. "Some of the servants knew more than they were supposed to. They always do."

Corvo offers a sour smile.

"Right. I almost forgot."

He's not sure if it's supposed to sound like irony. Corvo's broken voice always has that maddening nuance to it; impossible to decipher, as if he can't quite decide on the tone himself. Be it because of the damage from Coldridge or not, the entire nobility of the Isles must want him dead from sheer envy.

He’s unpredictable. Even to him, even to the Outsider himself. And he hates him for it.

He steps into the side room, casting a last glance at Emily, and shoots Daud an eloquent look. He hesitates for an instant, then follows him through the passage. As the library slides back into place behind him, he wonders if this is it -if Corvo's hands will close around his throat at the last moment and put an end to this. Perhaps he'll infect him instead, drag him into Hell along with him. He gazes at the window briefly, measuring the distance just in case. Billie grins at him from outside, perched on the windowsill. She puts a bloodied index to her lips, and he swallows through the lump that's suddenly back in his throat.

"Give me a second." Corvo croaks out, going through the stacks of papers scattered over the only visible desk. The room is an absolute mess, a nice contrast to the permanently unpolluted palace, and it occurs to Daud that it's the only one they let Corvo administer himself. His eyes linger on the bonecharms scattered over every surface, mixed with colourful drawings of pirates and monsters. Corvo’s hands run over a piece of paper, then turn the page and frowns at the printed half. "This will have to do."

"Do we need your daughter's signature?" Daud inquires quickly. Corvo shakes his head. He's breathing irregularly again.

"Not for this, no."

"Good." Daud finally approaches the desk, cautious. They're so _close_ to making it his hands falter over the papers, fingertips tingling with anticipation. A ship back home. No more endless rain; no more cold streets full of corpses and filth. _Peace_. Perhaps Billie will stay back on Dunwall's cursed shore, too. "We'll have it ready by dawn then. I'll be gone before the sun rises. You won't have to deal with us ever again, I give you my word."

Corvo’s lips draw a thin line.

“I’m afraid not.”

Daud freezes.

“What?”

Corvo sighs and drops messily on the chair behind the desk. He spins one of the pages and signs it with the least elegant flourish he’s seen in his life.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“ _What?_ ” he repeats through gritted teeth. So it _was_ a trap. He should’ve known. “You promised us the pardons. We just won back the Void-damned Empire for you. We saved your _daughter_.”

“I lied.”

Daud’s wristbow is aiming at his head in the lapse of a second. Corvo stares at it, then up at Daud, obviously unimpressed.

“You can’t keep us here.” he snarls. “Send the Abbey after us if you dare. You’ll have to find the city a new faith before the year ends. We’ve killed Overseers before.”

“I gave myself a little tour of your base before I jumped through your window.” Corvo replies calmly, signing a different paper. “I… borrowed every significant document you had about your Whalers. Names, handwriting, voice logs. A friend of mine is keeping them somewhere safe. Put a single foot out of Dunwall and we’ll hunt them down, no matter how good they think they are at hiding.”

“You gave me your word!” Daud roars.

“You’ll have the pardons. As long as you stay in the city. At Emily’s service.”

There’s a burst of songful laughter at Daud’s back. The Outsider slides his hand over his, resting his own finger over the trigger. He suppresses a flinch when the dark voice whispers in his ear.

_“Oh, if I could bottle up your expression. When’s the last time someone dared lie to your face?”_

He’s livid. The bodyguard starts coughing blood again, turning his head not to ruin the papers. He picks a blank one and starts writing carelessly.

“Attano, I swear I’ll put a bullet in your skull-“

“Waste of ammo.” Corvo croaks out. “Do your men a favour and sign.”

Daud snatches the documents from the desk. He pales instantly, drawing a sharp breath through the nose.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jessamine and I had these stocked up here. In case something happened to her and I was somehow… incapacitated. I was to pass my title to someone who could actually do my job.” Corvo rests his chin on one hand. “I like this exactly as much as you, believe me.”

“You’re trying to name me _Royal Protector_?” Daud laughs bitterly, tossing the piece of paper back on the desk more brusquely than necessary. He doesn’t know why he’s asking –he’s seen the damn paper, and it’s making him _sick_. “Fuck you. Even Burrows was less of a snake.”

“I could have headed straight to Kingsparrow instead of wasting precious time and risking my life asking for your help.” Corvo growls, pushing it back towards him. “I had to test you.”

“Yeah, well. I just failed.” he snaps back, nearly shaking with rage. “Are you out of your mind? Your daughter will _execute_ me.”

“Not if you give her this letter.” The bodyguard folds it sloppily and sets it on the desk. “She’s smarter than you give her credit for.”

“I killed her mother!” Daud throws his hands up, and he’s too angry to feel guilty when agony flashes in Corvo’s eyes. “I’m wanted for murder in every Isle in the Empire! Even if _anyone_ in the entire city backed your decision, it will start a civil war!”

“Take a good look around. That war might be starting as we talk.” Corvo snarls. “The throne is a joke. Emily has enemies everywhere, even inside the Tower, and I’m dying. She’s never been more vulnerable. No one I trust can protect her from that. No one I trust can get in and out of the palace without getting caught and get her out of the city unharmed, if it comes to that. You assaulted Kingsparrow Island with a dozen men and no casualties. I _need_ you.”

Daud steps away with a disbelieving hiss.

“The plague’s gotten to your head. I’m out of here.”

“You _owe_ her!” Corvo roars suddenly, smashing a fist against the desk. His face is contorted in pain and anger. “Not me. I’m _nothing_. I’ve always been nothing. You killed _her_ mother, you destroyed _her_ city. You’re not going anywhere until you fix your mess.”

 “Maybe I’ll just stab her too, then.” Daud draws a terrible smile. “Whoever comes next won’t bother hunting me down.”

Corvo shudders.

“You won’t.”

“Look at how _sure_ you are.”

“I know you.” Corvo spits, looking away. The whole thing is so _absurd_ he can’t help but laugh.

“Piece of advice, Attano. You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know you asked for a life you didn’t want. I know you’re in pain.” Corvo’s struggling to breathe suddenly. He coughs midsentence and finishes with a pained grimace. “I know you’re not as bad as everyone thinks you are. After you’ve made sure she’s safe you can go wherever you please. Jump from Kaldwin’s Bridge if you want. Until then, you belong to her as much as her good shoes.”

He wants to snap back at him. He wants to strangle the bastard with his own hands. His heart is a concerning pressure in his chest as his words shatter before getting past his teeth. He can almost hear Billie chanting _weak old man_ in the back of his thoughts.

He must have arrived at Hell early.

“Close the passage when you leave.” Corvo sighs, slumping over the desk. Blood drips from his eyes when he closes them. “Goodnight, Lord Protector.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daud actually feels like blowing up the palace right now.
> 
> PD: Please tell me you got the Wolf Among Us reference. That was some hard fanboying shit.


	6. Elision

 

“Your Majesty.“

“Yes, Captain?” Emily asks attentively. She’s giving him a slightly too cordial look, as if she doesn’t care whether it’s obvious that she’s pretending to care about his opinion. An eleven year-old shouldn’t be able to pull off that look.

Curnow opens his mouth to reply, but the loud _thump_ coming from behind the library destabilizes him completely. He decides to start again.

“Your Majesty, in my humble opinion- this is inhuman. And unnecessarily risky to your well-being.“

There’s a guttural moan coming from behind the wall. Curnow stiffens even more. Emily simply blinks.

“Sokolov is making significant progress with his cure for the plague. He’s working with Piero Joplin –a brilliant man, if I’m allowed. Lord Corvo could be properly attended in their laboratory.”

“You mean _contained_.”

There’s another _thump,_ louder this time. One of the books in the library topples to the floor. Curnow clenches his eyes shut, shivering imperceptibly.

“Lady Emily.” He lowers his voice. “Corvo is a good man. This isn’t a proper end for someone like him.”

“He’s not dead, Captain. Anton Sokolov will keep me informed of his progress himself, when he has something to say. You may go now.”

“Your Majesty-“

“You’re dismissed.” she pronounces clearly. Her eyes are pure steel.

“If the Royal Protector could keep an eye on your quarters-“

“I don’t have a Royal Protector.” Emily cuts him off sharply. “ _Dismissed_ , Captain Curnow. Have you gone deaf?”

Curnow’s jawline hardens. He makes a stiff bow and leaves the room without a word.

Emily slumps back in her chair with a sigh, clenching her eyes shut. Corvo lets out a long, broken groan from the hidden side room. Her lip trembles.

She’s waiting.

After a long moment, the air stirs ever so slightly. She jumps from the chair and crosses the room to collide against the figure standing near the window, wrapping her arms tightly around him. The Outsider hesitates, taken aback momentarily, then rests a hand on her head.

“He’s gonna die.” Emily sobs, hiding her face in his vest. “You said he wouldn’t die, but he’s dying. He doesn’t even answer me.”

“The Doom has taken his mind.” The Outsider tilts his head. “You have two of my Marked trapped in your ivory palace, little Empress. And yet you have no questions. Aren’t you curious about our nature?”

“I don’t care about you!” she snaps back, hitting his chest with two tiny fists. “You’re a liar! You said he wouldn’t die!”

The Outsider seems deeply amused by her reaction.

“All men die, little Empress.”

“Then why did you say that?!”

“He hasn’t died yet. You might still find a way to bring him back.”

Emily stops and frowns, blinking away the tears.

“You mean the cure? Is Sokolov going to heal him soon?” Her face lights up. “Is that why you helped me shoot the Admiral? He wouldn’t have let Corvo get well.”

“A new age is beginning, and you have the keys to the world. I wouldn’t miss that story for anything, believe me.” the Outsiders replies with a half-smile. “The great whales are singing your name in the deep darkness, a promise for a future not even I can see. Anything could happen.”

He reaches for her left hand. She pulls away brusquely, glaring up at him, but the touch lingers like soft electricity. Black eyes watch the empty spot of pale skin hungrily.

“In due time.” he finishes in a murmur.

 

 

A week has gone by since Corvo lost his mind to the illness. Traitors to the crown are still being executed every morning in Coldridge, and the list seems endless. He can hear the shots from the Tower. They would wake him up, if he ever slept.

When he does, he dreams of the rows of prisoners. He’s always last in the line, waiting. Always waiting. He wakes up to the shots. He wonders if any of them ask for their lives. He knows no one will listen. The only man who would is vomiting blood in the Empress’ chambers, weeping red from the eyes. Burrows is executed the first day.

Nobles used to be spared back in the day. Today their corpses are thrown into the Wrenhaven. Their only crime is bad timing. They should have been faster. They betrayed the wrong Empress.

The hagfishes have never gotten so big before. Servants start becoming guards only to pull the trigger themselves. The hungry children step over the rows of fat, pale bodies, laughing and kicking them around, stealing their clothes and shoes. The Watch has orders not to stop them. Street urchins have never been so well dressed, running through the ruined streets in silk vests big enough for three of them to fit in.

Emily passes a law that prohibits harming plague victims. They’re hauled into Sokolov’s house. The howls and moans can be heard from everywhere in the city. They catch a group of guards kicking them around for fun, laughing when they stagger to the ground. They’re executed the next day, in front of the palace’s doors. Emily watches with eyes like dark steel. She stands so close the blood splatters her shoes.

The Boyles’ monthly parties are open to the public now. Starving elderlies with bony hands and ragged clothes comment on the quality of the couches. There are Dead Eels singing drinking songs next to the Ramsey heirs. Someone has stuck a Hatter’s hat on Holger’s statue in front of the Abbey.

She doesn’t want him anywhere near her, and he can’t blame her. She cried her eyes out over Corvo’s letter, demanding to see him even when she knew he was already mad with the plague. Daud had stolen the only ring able to open the passage while she was still unconscious, and she spent the next two days threatening to have him beheaded if he didn’t return it. Now she simply glares at him with unconcealed despise every time he steps into her chambers to drop a report, regaling him with the sharpest remarks he’s ever had to hear. She’s not afraid of him in the slightest. The man who killed her mother is standing before her, and all she has to say is he should sit down before his knees give up.

She reminds him of himself. He would like her, if his stomach didn’t try to run away from his body every time he notices how much she looks like her mother. She dressed in black for a few days, and it only served to accentuate the likeness. When she changed back to white, her counsellors asked why. She said it would bring out her enemies’ blood more. Everyone is trying very hard to be labelled as friends since.

She’s exactly the ruler Dunwall deserves.

“Sir?”

He blinks away his thoughts, looking up to see Thomas at the door. The Whalers have kept their uniforms, just like himself. People have learned to fear them, and Emily doesn’t seem to care about their existence enough to order otherwise. They watch her from the shadows, usually in pairs. He’s established a twenty four hours schedule so that she’s never completely alone –although no one seems to be fond of the night shifts. She always has nightmares.

“Come in.” he sighs, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Any news?”

“Not exactly.” Thomas replies cautiously. Daud’s frown deepens, so he quickly adds, “I wanted to make sure you were doing well, sir. You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Is it that obvious?” he grumbles, abandoning the last pile of files he’s supposedly going through on his desk. It’s starting to become pyramidal.

“I strongly suggest you look in a mirror, sir.”

 _Mirrors_. He’s been avoiding them for six months. He’s not gonna start forgiving them now.

“I’m fine, Thomas.” he lies instead, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “It won’t be the first time I go without sleep for a while.”

“Well.” His second changes his weight from one foot to the other. “The thing is, sir, I have nothing to do at the moment. And I thought I could go through the gang activity reports myself. Since I’m free.”

Daud gives him a long look.

“Since you’re free.”

Thomas’ voice doesn’t even waver.

“You know, I hate sitting around doing nothing.”

Sly bastard. Still, he’s tempted to accept the offer. He won’t be able to sleep; he feels it in his bones. But getting rid of some paperwork, that he could definitely use-

Someone bangs on the door.

“Lord Knife, I’m afraid we have a problem!” a familiar voice raises from the hallway. He growls. _Sokolov._ The Royal Physician doesn’t wait for an answer. He opens the door hastily, forcing Thomas to stumble aside as he storms into the room. Daud is about to tell him to fuck off when he notices the man is strangely pale. He stands up immediately.

“What happened?”

“It’s Corvo. He’s gotten worse faster than I expected.” Sokolov informs quickly, eyeing Thomas’ mask. “I have my latest experimental cure with me, but it might not work. So far all I’ve managed is making the subjects die faster, for some reason.”

“Is it our only option?” he asks sternly, throwing his coat on as he strides out into the hallway. “Thomas.”

His second follows immediately. A passing guard stumbles away from their way, startled. Sokolov speeds up to match his pace.

“He’s having fits, but we can’t hold him still. Narcotics would kill him in this state. If I mess this up he’ll end up with a neddle stuck in an artery.”

“Charming.”

He hears Emily crying before they get to her chambers; when the door opens her screams fill the air and get into his lungs, digging into his chest form the inside out. The passage to the side room is open, and Corvo’s lying on the floor, fighting the grip of three guards and howling like a wounded beast –they can barely keep him from getting away. They’re all covered in blood. Curnow’s holding Emily away, and she keeps screaming at him to let her go.

“Leave him alone! Leave him alone you’re hurting him! You’re hurting him!”

“Morning, captain!” Sokolov greets without sparing a glance in his direction, setting his medical briefcase on the floor next to the bodyguard. One of the guards staggers away with a curse when Corvo manages to kick him in the face, holding his broken nose. The other two double their efforts, doing their best to stay away from the man’s teeth.

“Sir, we can’t hold him down much longer!”

“Tell me you have a Void trick for this.” Sokolov grumbles, dodging a kick as he hurries to hold his legs. Daud pries his eyes away from Corvo’s cracked, pale skin –the broken nails from clawing at the walls, the dark blood running over dry red from his mouth. The _eyes_.

“We can try.” He clears his throat and motions for Thomas to step closer. He catches the meaning and lifts a hand towards the bodyguard. His fingers twitch as the air stirs with the presence of the Void, dimming the light from outside. Shadows grow in a trembling dance, eerily creeping towards the sunlight and reaching for Corvo-

There’s a spark of energy. Thomas steps away with a pained cry, holding his hand. Sokolov gets kicked in the stomach and lands on his back, coughing.

“Goddammit, what’s the matter now?!”

“The plague must be affecting his connection with the Void.“ Thomas gasps, leaning against the doorframe for balance. “We could call some of the men. Hold him down enough to-“

“No.” Daud holds a hand up steps closer, peeling his gloves away. “There’s something I can try. Give me a second.”

Corvo falls silent all of a sudden. His bloodstained eyes roll back into his skull as he shakes uncontrollably, blood gurgling out of his mouth in a pink froth. A wave of blue runs over his skin in time with the spasms, growing from the back of his hand and sending the guards cowering away from him, screaming. The Mark flares on his skin, blue and yellow and a mix of swirling colours no mortal could ever name. Emily screams louder, calling his name.

“We don’t have a second.” Sokolov mutters, but his eyes are fixed on the Mark with a horrified, guilty kind of hunger.

Daud closes his eyes, ignoring the painful thumping of his heart resonating in his ribs. He breathes in the Void, the unspoken songs caught in the Outsider’s breath, his mother’s hands tracing shapes against the full moon. _My favourite_ , they sing in unison. He catches Billie’s hand through the darkness. It’s warm and alive; she squeezes back.

He opens his eyes, and the world blurs. He feels his bones clawing their way out of his body, flying through the deep cinereous air to meet Corvo’s shape on the floor. They melt together into a mess of ash and tar. He tastes blood.

He opens his eyes again. The sickness runs through his veins, sluggish and excruciating. He looks up at Sokolov’s awed expression through the blur of red, at the room that’s bent in all the wrong angles.

“Quick.” he croaks in a voice that isn’t his.

“Sir, the connection’s still-!”

Thomas’ voice is drowned by the Void as the needle sinks into his neck. Pain makes his Mark flare up with power, sending a rush of electricity through him. He screams, and suddenly the whale songs come crashing down on him.

He’s lost.

He sees the streets of Karnaca at night. The rain turns the dust into mud, and he’s laughing and running. But when he turns to look he doesn’t see his long-forgotten friends, but a girl with sharp, brown eyes. They catch snowflakes with bare hands, jumping to meet the sky, and it’s the first and only time they’ve seen snow. _Together_ , the Void sings above their heads. _Together forever. I promise_. The ground fades under his feet, swarming with dust and blades and blood, and suddenly she’s gone. Everything is gone.

Everything.

A man in a shiny uniform watches him fight, says _You’re special, boy_ with a bright grin. _I don’t want to be special_ , he thinks. _I want to find my sister._

The Whales sing. Jessamine dances with him for the first time under the dying light of the chandeliers. It’s late, and she’s perfect, and he’s absolutely, desperately in love. _Together forever_ , she whispers. And he knows how this ends, oh, he knows it too well, but he whispers back _I promise. I promise._ And then she’s gone too, shattered, disappearing piece by piece as the room disintegrates around them, floating off into the Void.

Black eyes watch him from the darkness. _You’re fascinating,_ they rustle. _I don’t want to be fascinating,_ he sobs. _I want her back._ The ocean of steel pulls him under, drowns him, burns him as the black gaze watches, and on every glistening edge he sees _him_.

Everything turns red in the lapse of a moment. Her face bathed in red, and the monster dressed in red; and his red, red handprints all over the shattered pieces of a dying world. There is nothing left. He destroyed it all. _He destroyed everything._

He wants him dead.

And he dares ask for mercy.

There’s a weight beating against his chest, a heart not unlike his own; dead, alive, broken. It whispers directly into his veins.

_He deserves worse._

_He deserves to keep living._

_He deserves to lose everything._

 

Daud wakes up with a jolt, gasping for air he can’t find. His knees hit the ground, and the sharp pain brings him back to reality. The blur of noise dishevels into voices as he brings a hand to his heart instinctively, making sure it’s still beating.

“…you okay?”

He feels hands on his shoulders and flinches away involuntarily. He raises his gaze, panting, and finds Corvo’s eyes fixed on him, dark and piercing. Alive. The bodyguard blinks, and there’s no blood in his eyes anymore. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then holds his throat with a pained grimace. The room is in absolute silence.

“I-“

“Corvo!” Emily collides with him, throwing herself at his arms. He holds her close automatically, blinking away sudden tears and burying his face in her hair.

“Emily.” he breathes out. A smile tugs at his cracked lips. “It’s okay. I feel better now.”

“Careful there, Your Majesty.” Sokolov warns, clearing his throat. “We still don’t know if the cure will have lasting effects.”

“I’m fine, Anton.” Corvo mutters with his broken voice.

“Daud.” Thomas calls with a note of concern, taking hold of his arm. He finally reacts.

“I’m fine.” He rasps out, getting to his feet; Thomas rushes to help him, supporting his weight. He can barely feel his legs, but he retreats towards the door as fast as he can. If there’s a chance he can make sense of what just happened, it definitely won’t be in the same room as Corvo Attano. If he can, he’ll avoid it for the rest of his cursed life. Dull lights dance in his field of vision, sharp around the edges. The Empress’ voice haunts his thoughts, digging into his bones, _piercing._

_He deserves to lose everything._

“Delilah.”

The word makes him freeze on the spot.

“Delilah.” Corvo repeats, raising his voice. “Daud. Who’s Delilah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: painful answers, poor made decisions and a haunted, tired blue.
> 
> Also, Dunwall is changing a lot. If you want short headcanons on any places/characters, just name it~ And as always, thanks for commenting/leaving kudos. I'm dying over all the love the story's getting ^^ Have a good angsty day <3


	7. Foil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. W e l l. We've already broken Corvo enough for now. We may now enter the arch formerly known as 'how to make Daud so miserable he'd actually be better off dead'.
> 
> Oh joy.

Corvo’s pacing the room restlessly. He’s washed away most of the blood, but there’s a spot of dark red left next to his eyebrow. Daud’s eyes are inexorably drawn to it, mainly so he doesn’t have to look him in the eye. He still looks like shit, but at least anger has imbued some strength into him. An angry man is better than a walking corpse.

“She was trying to possess Emily?” he repeats coldly. His footsteps are an even rhythm on the wooden floor. “Through a _painting_?”

“One hell of a weekend.” Daud replies with a grunt.

“You stopped her. Why?”

“I never liked art.”

Corvo shoots him a burning glare, but he somehow manages to hold his gaze.

“You saved Emily.” Corvo mutters, then corrects himself, “You risked your _life_ to save Emily. What was in it for you?”

“I thought it would keep my head from rolling if I got arrested.” He shrugs and lights another cigarette. The smoke curls around his fingers. “Before you showed up and fixed that for me.”

Corvo huffs.

“I tried to kill you. You could have told me then. Why didn’t you?”

“You didn’t look very diplomatic.” he retorts. Corvo snarls, then wrinkles his nose.

“Put that out.”

Daud blows smoke through his nose and stares at the cigarette for a long second, then brings it to his lips and takes a longer drag. Corvo’s sword hand twitches.

“Or what, you’ll shoot me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“That thing, the heart. Is it the Empress’?”

Corvo actually _growls._

“You don’t have a right to even mention her.” he hisses, slamming both hands on the desk.

“You didn’t kill me because she told you it wasn’t cruel enough. I have a damn _right_ to mention her.” Daud snaps back. “And I thought it was _mercy._ ”

“You don’t deserve mercy. Even you must know that much.” Corvo states coldly, and it hurts in a way he didn’t expect. He’s right. That’s the worst part.

But it’s not _fair._

“Did Burrows deserve your filthy mercy?” he hisses, stubbing his cigarette on the surface of the desk. Corvo’s expression spells murder. Daud stands up abruptly. “Did _Campbell_? The Pendletons? Or are you just _that_ fond of rich fucks making you bite the dust?”

He has to admit, he’s earned the punch. It turns his head to the side violently, and before he can stumble back Corvo punches him again and finishes the job himself. He hits the floor painfully, but he can’t help but laugh –it spills out from him like a cracking dam, wild and hoarse. He brings a gloved hand to his broken lip and sees blood glistening on the dark leather.

“Couldn’t afford the Golden Cat?” he spits, grinning with red-stained teeth. “They have some stuff from Coldridge if you’re feeling nostalgic-”

This time he’s expecting it. The blow makes his head crash against the floor, blinding him with white searing pain for an instant. He doesn’t have time to recover before Corvo punches him again. Again. Again. He doesn’t fight back. Attano’s quiet as a tomb, eyes as empty as the day the Empress died, as if the world has swallowed his words along with everything else.

It’s not enough.

 _He deserves worse_ , the Empress’ heart said. She was right. He deserves every ounce of pain the world can throw at him. For her, for Emily, for Corvo. For the piles of dead bodies with whaler masks whose only mistake was trusting him. For the people burning and broken among the legs of the Tallboys with no fair ruler left to care. The dead children. His victims and Attano’s, all merged together in an ocean of bones.

He doesn’t have enough years left to pay for all of it. He would need millennia.

This will have to do.

He doesn’t register Attano’s weight lifting off him. The absence of pain makes him open his eyes, and he spots the bodyguard leaning above him with bloodstained knuckles, eyes wide open like a scared child.

“That all you’ve got?” he snarls.

Corvo’s fist clenches. He lifts it as if to hit him again, but his arm is shaking.

“Come on, bodyguard. Don’t tell me it doesn’t feel refreshing to be on that side of the punching for once.” he taunts, attempting to sit up and failing miserably. His voice is thick with pain and swelling. “Do you want to know how much Burrows paid me? I would’ve done it for free, just to see all the petty lords of your court cowering away in fear of my name. You should’ve seen the amount of contracts we got after that. We drank to her death for months-“

That does the trick. Attano’s fist collides with his stomach brutally, making him bend over himself with a pained grunt. But the next punch doesn’t come, and he snarls at the bodyguard's petty expression, blood spilling from his mouth as rage floods his thoughts.

“Go on, you bastard!” he roars, opening his arms. “Break me apart! Kill me already! _Kill me_!”

The next punch hits his side, and he feels the rib crack before he feels the pain. He gasps for air as it rushes through him, a flash of sharp agony, and suddenly it _is_ enough. His Mark flares up, fear summoning his power instinctively. He’s about to transverse away when a last blow hits him on the side of the head, and darkness settles into his skull with a silent snap.

 

The room is empty when he wakes up. The sun is long gone behind the horizon, and a sudden chill has invaded the room. He blinks a few times and tries to push himself off the ground, only to collapse again in a fit of coughing, clutching his side. Everything is painful. His broken lip throbs, a mess of dry blood and pulsing pain. Muscles he didn’t even remember he had hurt like a bitch everytime he breathes. He wonders if Attano kept punching him after he passed out. He wouldn’t even be surprised.

He’s been here for hours. It registers, in a far corner of his brain, that no one has noticed. At least he doesn’t have to give explanations as to why he’s acting like a childish idiot.

He finally manages to get to his feet, holding on to the edge of his desk. He winces as he stands up, careful not to make any sudden moves. He unbuttons his coat clumsily and presses a hand lightly to his side, feeling for the broken rib. It’s not immediately dangerous, but he should really go see Jenkins before it is.

Instead, he drops messily on the chair behind his desk and fumbles for his lighter. The cigarette smoke claws at his throat with its gentle fire, sliding out from his lips without a sound. It's always seemed a beautiful way to commit suicide. One day at a time, blowing slow death at everyone’s faces, making the world breathe in the first line of his testament; that he didn’t give a single fuck.

“Your carelessness is almost infuriating.” a gentle voice comments somewhere to his right. He pulls a mirthless laugh.

“ _Almost_? What else do I have to do, jump off the roof?”

“For starters.” The Outsider reappears next to him, leaning on his desk and towering over him. He tips his chin up with his fingertips, and Daud leans away brusquely, pulling an amused smirk from the great leviathan. “That would certainly put an end to this desperate call for my attention, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not doing this for you.” he snarls. The Outsider's smile widens.

“No? Who are you doing it for then? You? _Him_?”

“Attano and his vengeful hero complex can suck my dick.” He glares up at him through the smoke. “Now fuck off, I’m not in the mood to deal with you.”

“Says the guilty old man.” The Outsider purrs, brushing his bruised cheekbone with his knuckles. “You used to be beautiful, Daud. Young and full of anger. Is there anything you regret more than growing old?”

“Meeting you seems like a plausible choice.”

There’s a stir of black on the other side of the room, and he tenses automatically. Well, fuck.

“Sir, I was wondering –sacred Void!”

Thomas rushes to his side, speaking loudly at such a pace he can barely make out _whoever did this_ and _you should’ve called me immediately_ among the babbling. He sighs, feeling more exhausted than he has been in his entire life.

“Thomas.”

“I can’t believe you think you can sit here while injured like this! You could be bleeding internally!”

“ _Thomas_.”

“Don’t move. I’ll get Jenkins. How did it even happen?!”

“Don’t fucking call- _agh_!”

He flinches away. Thomas pulls his hand away from where it just pressed to his broken rib, looking contrite. Daud shudders, grimacing in pain as he brushes his own fingers over the bruising skin. It hurts even more now, but the swelling isn’t as bad as he expected.

“Don’t call anyone.” he orders sternly. “It’s not that badly broken, just cracked. I’ll drink a bucket of elixir and sleep it off.”

“Sleep off a _broken rib._ ”

“It’s not broken.”

“At least let me take a look at it.”

He complies grudgingly. Thomas disappears and comes back with his mask off and Jenkins’ worn medical briefcase, then furiously blackmails him into taking off his coat and vest. He’s halfway through feigning indifference as he painfully shrugs off his shirt when he notices the Outsider still in the room, suspended nonchalantly near the ceiling. He waves down at him cheerfully. He narrows his eyes.

“I have to bandage it.” Thomas informs apologetically. Daud groans.

“ _Why_?”

“Because we need you alive. We have training tomorrow morning.”

He quirks an eyebrow.

“You don’t need me for that. The novices can ask you if they have trouble.” He eyes him thoughtfully. “Remind me again why you’re not wearing crimson already.”

Thomas flushes deep red, quickly looking away as he clears his throat awkwardly.

“I’m not that good, sir. No more than the rest. I’m not like…”

He interrupts himself, but the end of the sentence worms its way between his ribs anyways.

Not like Billie.

They all used to wish they were Billie Lurk. The novices admired her; the masters envied her. They wanted to have her quick hands for the trigger, her extraordinary aim. They wanted to be just as sharp-tongued, just as fearless. They wanted to be the one silhouette in red standing next to the Knife of Dunwall, confidant and successor. The younger kids used to sit around her at dinner, listening to her crack dark jokes and tease Daud without a trace of fear, not getting more than matching sharp remarks and an amused half-smile in return. She was the best. She was the very best.

Then they saw her die as a traitor on the end of his blade.

No one wants to be like Billie anymore. They don’t mention her. They avoid her name when they recall old jobs and hush the new recruits sharply when they ask. There’s an unspoken warning looming over them all to avoid becoming the next Billie Lurk.

He fixes his gaze on the opposite wall. He sees her standing on the edge of his vision, resting her dead, leather-clad hands on Thomas’ thin shoulders.

He shudders.

“Right. I guess not.”

 

 

He’s waiting for Attano when he comes back, in the middle of the night. The single lamp he’s bothered to light casts his shadow on the walls like a grotesque beast. He sits back on his chair and gives him the sharpest grin he can muster.

“Back for more, bodyguard?”

Corvo unsheathes his sword without a word. Then he reaches behind him and locks the door with a faint, thunderous _click._


	8. Zeugma

 

It’s become a habit.

Weeks pass by sluggishly, an endless routine of waiting through sleepless night for the sun to rise again. Corvo reclaims his title as soon as he recovers, and Emily summons Daud briefly to her office to mention the concerning vacant left by her mother’s late Spymaster. She makes a point of going on about what a shame it’d be to lose him, too. He’s smart enough to recognise a threat when he hears one. He thinks of his men, swallows his pride and accepts the offer.

He never sleeps more than a couple hours, and nightmares follow him into reality when he forces himself out of bed. These days it feels like there’s always someone planning a coup somewhere _._ He catches no less than five anonymous assassins trying to get into the palace and falling pathetically into the traps he’s been setting methodically in every small passage leading to the tower. One of them he has to drag down from the roof above Emily’s chambers and through half the tower before he admits to be working for the last Brimsley heir. Reports pile up on his desk as soon as he’s finished reading them. Thomas insists on helping him with them, and he’s too exhausted to kick him out.

Emily’s reign is something not even the flock of counsellors that swarm around her have been able to predict. The people love her, while the nobility is collectively terrified of her. Estate dinners happen quietly and nervously, with progressively less angry demands as the number of empty chairs grows. Emily listens politely to every one of them, then whispers in Corvo’s ear. The next day there are less people in the room.

The executions continue. She tries to free all the heretics kept in Holger Square, and it’s the first time she doesn’t manage to get away with something. After a heated argument with the heads of the Abbey, she complies. That night, mysteriously, the prisoners disappear from their cells, and they find the High Overseer clawing at the walls with bloodied fingers, completely out of his mind and screaming bloody heresy as they drag him into his own cells.

He’s quite proud of that job.

Emily has already figured out the Whalers have orders to watch over her. Now she makes two of them accompany her everywhere, and heartily enjoys the looks they get. They’re oddly fond of her too, snorting loudly every time her sharp remarks make the nobles stutter and flush in outrage. She’s learned all their names by the second day, and sometimes Daud catches her staring pointedly at him in a way that reminds him eerily of Billie. Calculating. Waiting for the exact moment he becomes expendable. The girl sees the world like a game of chess, but he doesn’t have the energy to care. He bows and smiles and stays away from her as often as he can, and that’s all.

What bothers him to no end, and he can’t possibly grasp _why_ , is that he’s seen her casting that _exact_ look at Corvo when she’s out of his field of vision. They argue constantly, always behind closed doors, but listening to what happens in the palace is half his job. Emily refuses to ban the interrogations in Coldridge. Emily has Campbell’s old supporters dragged out of their houses and shot at the feet of Holger’s statue. Emily orders Corvo to stay out of her chambers unless he has her express permission, fires her former servants and picks new ones among the people she freed from the High Overseer’s cells. Attano argues until he loses his voice, spends whole nights perched outside her window even under the rain, roams the hallways for hours driven by paranoia and insomnia. He always keeps a hand close to his heart, and often reaches unconsciously for the pocket on the inside of his coat. Daud has seen him curled on himself in a corner of his chambers, cowering away from things that aren’t there, mumbling mangled words under his breath as the Empress’ heart beats gently between his twitched fingers. He would think they’re talking, if he didn’t know the horrid thing can’t hear him.

Ah, yes. _Attano._

There’s not a pattern for how often they meet. They avoid each other completely during the day, sometimes sharing a brief look accidentally when he catches the bodyguard glaring pointedly at him. Corvo always turns his head immediately; he can never tell if he’s disgusted or ashamed. Then he steps into his office when the sun is gone. He never says a single word.

The Whalers notice the bruises, of course. Zachary throws him concerned looks every now and then, and laughs nervously whenever they talk. Galia starts glaring at Attano in the hallways even more keenly than before, cracking her knuckles loudly when he walks by. Jenkins raises his voice more than necessary when commenting how _well_ everyone’s doing now that they’re working in the palace, elevating the sarcasm in the room just by breathing. But they avoid asking. He wonders if they’re glad, deep inside, if they think he deserves it. They might as well be laughing behind their masks when they watch him trying to dissimulate a limp or a broken finger. He’d rather not know.

Thomas picks up the habit of showing up at random times of the day to change the growing collection of bandages covering him and force him to eat something. If it weren’t for him he’d be running solely on Sokolov’s elixir by now. He’s glad, deep inside, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating. Thomas replies to his annoyed grumbling with a simple nod and ignores each and every one of his complaints if not to lecture him on how much of an idiot he is.

“I swear to the Void, you’re like a stubborn child.” he scolds sourly as he finishes replacing the stitches that got ruined last night. He’s taken off his mask to see properly while he works, and Daud can’t help but marvel at how young he still is. How far away from being finished. It feels like it was yesterday when he picked him up from the streets, barely more than a kid. He’s kept the badly chopped, muddy brown hair, the too-clever light eyes and the innumerable freckles. If he squints he can still see that skinny boy with too many ghosts on his shoulders, all bone and wit. But now he’s scarred on the outside too, and all the fear is gone.

He could have gotten anywhere with his brains. Become a barrister’s apprentice or sailed out from this cursed city. But he put a blade in his hands instead and told him to use it, told him he was _good_ at it, and now he’s just another piece in the mess he’s made.

Standing closer to the abyss with every passing day.

“I don’t need you to slap my wrist every time I get into a fight.” he retorts through gritted teeth.

“You’re losing a lot of _fights_ lately.”

“I’m fighting a lot.”

Thomas frowns up at him.

“I don’t even know how you can walk around like this.” he sighs, wrapping yet another bandage around Daud’s injured knee. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

It hurts. Of course it hurts. Attano never leaves until he’s unable to push himself off the ground, gasping for breath through the pain. He never asks him to stop or to go on, and if sometimes he yanks the bastard closer instead of away it’s not anyone’s business. Corvo allows rage to speak for him. Whenever he hesitates, it only takes mocking the dead Empress with a mirthless laugh to draw anger back to his gaze.

Sometimes he starts crying in the middle of it, shaking with silent sobs and clutching handfuls of his hair. Daud find himself striking back once, backhanding him across the face and barking at him to stand up, to _do something_. Corvo falls silent immediately, then looks up at him with glassy eyes through strands of messy dark hair and mutters:

“Do that again.”

Daud freezes, unable to find his voice to tell him to fuck off. A part of him is utterly furious. Attano doesn’t have a right to feel guilt. He’s the one the world has destroyed, the embodiment of all his mistakes. He can’t stroll in here and ask for more pain like it means nothing, like it doesn’t tear him apart to even consider it.

Instead, he complies. His knuckles crash against the bodyguard’s mouth and turn his face to the side, splattering blood over the floor. Corvo stays perfectly still for a long second, breathing heavily, then smiles at him hesitantly with a broken lip.

He can’t bear the gratefulness in his eyes. It slices his sanity open like a fruit cut in half. It’s not fair. It’s anything but fair.

But he punches again. Corvo clenches his eyes shut and waits for the next blow, uttering a growled curse when it lands on his jaw. He brings a hand to his face and draws a sharp breath, then lets it out slowly.

“So that’s why you do it.” he rasps out. “Interesting.”

“You’re a piece of shit, did you know that?” Daud growls angrily. Corvo blinks, surprised.

“Why?”

“You're a fucking _piece of shit_.”

“I’ve had worse.” Corvo mumbles, feeling for the inside of his cheek with his tongue. He winces and spits a piece of tooth covered in blood. Daud lets out a sharp laugh.

“Don’t you _say._ ”

“Do it again.”

“Fuck off, Attano. And get out of my office.”

“I need to go.” Corvo retorts matter-of-factly, as if it was _his own goddamn idea_ , so shamelessly it makes his blood boil _._ Corvo stands up and stretches his shoulders, meeting his glare with a nonchalant shrug. It’s the most they’ve talked in weeks.

The air fills with the burnt smell of the Void. Corvo tenses and blinks away, just an instant after Thomas materializes next to the door. He has to admit it’s a nice change.

The Whaler raises his eyebrows at Daud eloquently. Little fucker.

“I’m going to ban you from going in here without knocking.” he growls, pushing himself to his feet.

“Been fighting a lot, huh?” Thomas comments a little too casually, walking over to help him up. Daud smacks his hands away.

“Not your business.”

“At least you broke his face. I was starting to think you were letting him beat you senseless.”

_Ha._

“I think I fucked up the stitches again.” he replies grimly, undoing his vest with stiff fingers.

“Let me take a look.”

Thomas attempts to help him out of his shirt, earning yet another smack. He shrugs it off and tosses it on top of whatever reports he’s supposed to be reading. Thomas frowns at the bandages covering his stomach, tugging at the loose end.

“There’s no blood. I’ll just wrap it up a bit tighter.”

He yanks at it, pulling a hiss from Daud at the sharp twinge of pain.

“You know, there are betters ways of trying to kill me.” he grumbles through his teeth, holding on to Thomas’ shoulder with tense fingers to fight the dizziness. “You could just _ask_.”

“I’d rather keep you alive, sir.”

 “You must be the only one.”

“I’ll take that as a _‘thank you’._ ”

He snorts, looking down at Thomas with a bitter half-smile.

“Honestly now. Thank you.”

Thomas hesitates, then taps his bandaged side, muttering _‘done’_. Daud is halfway through pulling away when Thomas suddenly moves closer, pressing their mouths together. He yanks away instinctively, even before he’s had time to process it. Thomas steps back, terribly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry.” he stutters, throwing everything back into the medical briefcase hastily. He’s flushed to the roots of his hair. “I thought- No, I obviously didn’t think-“

Daud pinches the bridge of his nose and drops down on his chair, sighing sharply through his nose. Dammit. _Dammit._

“I’m really sorry-“

“Don’t.” he interrupts him sternly. “Let’s not mention it. It doesn’t matter.”

The Whaler gazes back on his way to the door, looking utterly miserable.

“Daud, I’m really sorry.” he repeats in a lower voice. Daud merely stares at him, more exhausted than he’s felt in decades.

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

 

 

It’s raining again. The streets house a quiet veil of darkness, wrapped around the many things that go wrong at night in Dunwall. Muffled footsteps. Hidden knives. Now that the silence is missing the agonic wails from the weepers, everything feels amplified somehow. Consequences are back to the world from whatever pocket realm they were caged in since the death of Jessamine Kaldwin, like the feverish nightmare that was hanging over the city has finally faded away. There’s a new Empress on the throne, and the Royal Physician’s cure for the plague is doing wonders. Reality slowly fits back into place as Dunwall recovers and death regains some of its meaning. Whoever’s too slow to jump on the cartwheel of the new era will get left behind with the dead.

It still lingers, in the corners. The edges. Alleyways painted red and composed by the heavy stillness of empty apartments. The piles of corpses still rotting together in the dark waters of the Flooded District, lit only by the unearthly glow of spilled whale oil. Shadowy paths in the sewers where the water bellows and the erratic silhouettes with swollen stomachs still wander and moan. The places where the rats hide.

Granny Rags’ house is one of those places. The filth is so old the stench is barely a pungent reminder of what it was. All the lamps are old and flicker ominously in the penumbra. The walls lost their original colour long ago. The paintings are but absences on empty frames.

“It’s easy, deary –see?” The witch raises a hand, and the room suddenly grows colder. A noise like fingers drumming on wood follows, and the rats crawl away from the corners the light doesn’t reach, shapes contorted as they come to life in spasms of thick shadow. The old woman welcomes them with hands like thin spiders and loving words, calling them _‘birdies, birdies. My birdies’_.

Emily raises her small hand, but nothing happens. She frowns at it.

 “It’s not working.” she protests in an accusing tone.

“Patience, dear. Patience.” Granny Rags brings a bony finger to her lips. “The boy with the dark eyes, he’ll give you his voice to call them. You just have to wait.”

“How long?” she inquires, reaching hesitantly to pet one of the rats. It screeches horrifyingly at her. “I want to do this, too. I want to appear and disappear like my father. I’ve seen him do it plenty of times.”

She clenches her fist illustratively with a look of deep concentration, but nothing happens this time, either. She huffs her displeasure, irritated.

“You want to dance before you’ve walked, deary. Gut before you’ve skinned. It takes time, becoming a suitable bride.”

“I won’t be a bride, Granny.” she corrects in a musical tone, as if she’s reciting the simplest of answers. “I want to be like him.”

The witch laughs, delighted. The swarm of rats stirs around her, changing shape like a misshapen shadow of their mistress.

“Oh, but deary, _deary_ , there can only be one like him.”

Emily frowns. _Don’t worry, Granny,_ she thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. _There will only be one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well fffff-
> 
> The world is changing way too fast. It's the thing with living to tell. You get to suffer through the next tale.


	9. Assonance

The swords clash. Jenkins staggers backwards among the choir of whistling and cheering, clutching his with both hands.

“I’m a Void-damned doctor!” he protests in a high-pitched voice.

“A Void-damned doctor with the worst footing I’ve seen in years.” Daud retorts with a wolfish smile, approaching him with measured steps. “Your guard is too low. Lift your arms.”

“There is a _reason_ I stay behind!”

“Yeah, that you’re bad as all fucks. Don’t look away now, I’m coming up front.”

Jenkins frowns in deep concentration. Daud makes for his chest, then transverses right behind him. The Whaler tries to turn around, but he kicks him on the back of the knee and sends him to the ground with a pained huff.

“Who the fuck told you to trust the enemy?” he grins along with the burst of laughter from the rest of the Whalers. “Zachary, put this mighty man of science out of his misery.”

“Gladly, sir.”

Swords clash again as he steps out from the circle and lets Zachary take his place, running a hand through his hair to fix the loose strands. He straightens his coat with deliberate nonchalance, making sure the strain on his chest doesn’t show on his face. He chases the pain away with regular breaths, wondering if he’ll have to quit smoking if only not to collapse in the middle of training. Perhaps it won’t make a difference.

“Sir.” Hobson draws his attention, shooting a quick glare at the palace balustrades hanging above them. “The weeper’s watching again.”

He looks up to see Corvo up in one of the higher balconies, arms rested on the edge as he follows their movements.

“Hm.” He peels his gloves off and points at him with them. “If you see him taking notes, shoot him.”

Hobson _grins._

“Of course, sir.”

He allows himself an instant of concern as he heads for the palace doors. She’s not the only one whose hatred is fully palpable whenever Attano’s anywhere close. They mock him behind their masks and rest their hands on their blades when he passes by, not bothering to dissimulate their muffled laughter. He knows the feeling. He knows how desperate scared kids are to show they’re scarier than the monsters who destroyed them. He never spares a look on them anyways, and it only makes them bolder. There will be a time when joking about slitting Attano’s throat in his sleep won’t be enough, and then he’ll have to deal with the mess.

And Hobson he can’t control. She’s too far gone past the edge of anger. He’d like to think she’ll get better in time, but he knows how those things rot inside. Poisoning slowly. She keeps her brother’s ring hanging from her neck, and clutches it in one hand in her sleep, so hard it’s left a mark in her palm. She used to be a good fighter before, but now she lives to train. She’ll be wearing dark blue in no time.

He’s not sure if he’d try to stop her.

 

Anton Sokolov’s house is a massive building in Kaldwin’s Bridge, but saying he lives there would be an overstatement. When Emily first sat on the throne he made an impressive comeback to court, offering every important charge to paint them before they got beheaded, just in case. Then Piero Joplin and him proceeded to lock themselves up in his laboratory for a whole week, during which the neighbours denounced endless shouting about impossible formulae, longchairs being thrown through open windows and, apparently, hours worth of heated discussion over the river krusts’ mating cycle. They emerged with a colossal hangover –in Sokolov’s case-, the expression of a man who has finally seen one too many things –in Joplin’s- and a perfected cure for the plague.

The next few weeks he spent being busy with administering the remedy to the roughly a thousand weepers the Watch managed to lock up in his house. After that he suggested studying the means to concoct a vaccine, but it met a quick end when Corvo refused to provide him with newborn babies for his tests and thanked him stiffly for his efforts. The man merely shrugged and invited him to a celebration party that same night. No one has seen him in public since. But Daud knows exactly where he is.

He’s actually been to the Golden Cat before. When he first arrived in Dunwall, sneaking in was the ultimate challenge for the gangs of shoeless kids wandering the streets. One of his first memories from the city is managing to get to the last floor of the Cat before a younger Prudence, then an erotic legend of her own, opened her window in the worst possible moment and sent him tumbling down to the tiles in front of the entrance, knocking down a guard in the process. It became a victory when the courtesans took in ‘the poor bleeding boy’ and stitched him up themselves, then insisted to give him some real food and a full glass of whiskey.

He strolls along the roof ridges above that same window, sparing a glance down to see Dunwall under the sun for once. It’s funny how the city feels almost foreign in this light; too noisy, too filled with reflections. Alive.

He holds onto the edge of the roof and drops on the balcony below, pushing open the doors to one of the suites. A thick mist composed by mixed smoke welcomes him, making him wrinkle his nose as he steps inside. Sokolov is lying on the vast, disarranged bed with at least two cigars in his mouth, surrounded by three girls that look deadly bored. One of them seems to be pretending to be asleep, because she sits up with an annoyed frown when the light hits her eyes.

“Mr Sokolov, you have a visit.” she announces, shaking him. The man grumbles something and interrupts his soliloquy, blinking at the sudden sunlight for a moment before greeting Daud with a sharp laugh. The cigars fall from his lips and manage to burn the bed before one of the girls smacks them to the floor with a Pandyssian curse.

“Lord Knife! Long time no see!” Sokolov hums cheerfully, stretching like an old cat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“There’s a matter I could use your help with.” Daud waves smoke away from his face, grimacing. What the _hell_ has he been burning, that thankfully remains unknown.

Sokolov’s eyes light with a mischievous glint, and he gives him the most disgustingly wicked smile he’s had the disgrace of witnessing.

“Oh. A _matter_. Always a good way to start a conversation. Is it interesting?”

“I’ll let you decide that.” Daud stares pointedly at the girls and points a thumb at the door. “Everyone out. Matters of the crown.”

“You heard the man.” Sokolov sighs, sitting up without bothering to fix his unbuttoned clothes. The girls escape the room faster than necessary, undoubtedly glad to be rid of him. Sokolov claps and rubs his hands. “So! What is it you need help with?”

“My heart.” Daud replies. Sokolov snorts, but he ignores him and continues. “It’s been giving me trouble, and it’s a pain in the ass. Any scientific marvel you have for that?”

Sokolov smooths his beard thoughtfully.

“There is something. Corvo’s been using it for a while.” he mutters, then shakes his head at Daud’s deepening frown. “Oh, no. It’s not for that. He’s having… attacks lately. No one should be surprised. Coldridge does _things_ to a man. This helps him relax, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re really bad at keeping people’s secrets.” Daud replies with an icy smile.

“I don’t try. I’m pretty sure I have a bottle somewhere…” Sokolov reaches for his pockets, then remembers his jacket is hanging ungracefully from the folding screen painted with rosy flowers next to the bed. He pushes himself off the bed and flips a couple more pockets, making an extravagant collection of small objects rain on the carpet. “Aha!”

He turns around with a small, dark green bottle between his fingers and hands it to Daud with a bright smile.

“Keep it. I’ll get another one for the Lord Protector on my way to the tower.”

Daud snatches it from his fingers and inspects it with a critical look. It looks oddly familiar.

“And I guess there’s no guarantee you’ll keep this secret, either.” he comments casually, fixing a steely gaze on the man. Sokolov shrugs.

“It’s a risk. In my defense, I probably won’t remember any of this.” He lifts a finger and watches the thick fog curl around it. It turns a glowy pink briefly when his hand cuts through it, then fades into an indescribable colour again. “It could just as well have been a dream.”

 

 

Its’s only hours later, when Corvo’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office while pouring elixir on the wound left by the tooth Daud just punched out of his jaw, that he realizes what the thing is. He reaches for the small bottle hidden away in his coat, praying it hasn’t cracked, and lifts it to look at it against the light. Corvo stops what he’s doing immediately, shooting the thing a slightly concerned look.

“Is that-“

“Sokolov’s. He mentioned you were using it.” Daud replies on a perfectly conversational tone. Corvo draws a sharp breath.

“Are you doing _that_ bad?” he asks bitterly. Daud frowns, twirling the bottle once between his injured fingers. It sparkles softly in the lamplight.

“I was just wondering if you _knew_ what it is.”

“Poison.” Corvo ventures with a half-hearted shrug. “Hagfish spit, for all I know.”

“You got closer the first time.” Daud uncorks the bottle and smells it tentatively, grimacing in disgust at the sweetened stench. “My mother used to have a bucket of this simmering somewhere at all times. It’s pretty strong. We gave it to old people with the flooded bone. I always suspected she kept a flask for herself- _what?_ ”

Corvo’s staring at him pointedly, as if he’s just found a particularly big rat under his pillow. He looks away immediately.

“Nothing. Your mother?”

“Is it that hard to conceive that I wasn’t just spit out by the sewers?” Daud grunts. “Mothers, Attano. I’m pretty sure you had one too, before you sold her for sleep darts.”

“Don’t rule out the sewers all too soon.” Corvo groans hoarsely in return, scratching at the back of his head. “Have you tried it yet?”

“I’m not that sure I want to.” he mutters, frowning down at the deep green liquid. “Shit’s risky. Trying to poison me counts as a sport, but I’m surprised Sokolov’s giving it to you.”

Corvo grins. It’s a terrifying sight.

“Big gulp. I’ll show you something.”

He shifts closer gracelessly. Daud stares at him like a colossal insect is crawling towards him, but Corvo just looks at him in silence, expectant. Daud lifts the bottle and complies reluctantly, bringing it to his lips to take a long sip.

It hits him like the crash of the ocean against rocks. He coughs once, blinking to hold the tears as he somehow remembers to put the cork back in the bottle before it slips from his hands and rolls to the floor. He feels it in his veins like molten iron, tugging at the sharp knots in his shoulders and the pressure in his chest. He takes a deep breath as if it’s the first he’s ever had, and the taste settles on his tongue like liquid fire. He smells wild flowers. The coast of Pandyssia.

“Look.” Corvo mutters, grabbing his left hand. He holds one of his fingers and rests all his weight on it, pushing against the floor. It snaps with a jolt like lightning, sending pure fire running through him, filling his lungs. Daud chokes on a breath and struggles to regain his composure, blinking to chase away the sparks of light flooding his vision.

“ _Fuck._ ” he rasps out. Corvo grins again.

“See?” He shifts away, stretching to recover the bottle and take a long gulp himself. It spills, trickling down his throat. “Even spared your good hand. You can keep writing your shitty reports.”

Daud _growls._

“I’m left-handed, you fucking idiot.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. Then they burst out laughing, as if they’ve finally gone completely and utterly insane, and they keep laughing through the missing teeth and the broken fingers and the fire, fire chasing away the nightmares until they’re nothing. It doesn’t even hurt. He can feel his ghosts fading at his back, disintegrating like ash on the wind. He hasn’t felt this alive since-

 

 

He stumbles down the empty hallways alone. He stops short when he realizes where he is, looking around with glazed eyes.

What the _hell_.

He reaches for the inside of his coat, but the bottle is gone –along with his purse, apparently. He growls. _Attano_.

He leans on the wall to keep walking, slightly dizzy. The colours seem all slightly _wrong_ , as if someone’s painted the world a single hue brighter. Memories try to spark into life through the fog of nothingness that envelops his thoughts. He remembers laughing until he lost his breath. His stomach hurts from it alone.

“Having fun?” an amused voice purrs in his ear.

He snarls and keeps walking. He’s _not_ in the mood for this. The Outsider’s cold fingers trace the hand-shaped bruises on his neck from the nothingness, making him flinch away from the contact.

“You’re putting up quite a show. And still I find myself uninterested.” the languid voice comments in a murmur, barely a flash of dark on the edge of his vision. “What happened to you, Daud? You used to catch my eye like gold among the filth.”

“You probably got the shit out of your eye.” he replies dryly, forcing himself to walk faster.

“You’ve gone empty from the inside out.” He spins around, finding an empty hallway, but the Outsider’s voice follows him anyways. “Billie Lurk saw it first. She found a brighter flame to follow; if she’d only been wiser… For all her worth, she was terrible at choosing who to trust. Got lost so quick in the dark.”

“Shut up.” Daud hisses, leaning on the wall with twitched fingers.

“And the others? I taste the doubt in their dreams. They _wonder_. How long it’ll take for you to still another heart to make sure they won’t abandon your sinking ship. How long until you drag them into the great deeps with you.” the Outsider whispers, sounding utterly delighted.  “How hard would it be to get rid of you. Three of them, perhaps. Four, one to hold the knife and spill red on red. Or they could sail away from Dunwall in the middle of the night, be halfway towards Karnaca before the sun rose.”

The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to show up. He growls and storms out into one of the balconies, holding to the balustrade with clenched hands until his knuckles turn white. A gush of cold air hits his face, but the growing strain in his chest only worsens when he takes a deep breath, struggling to exile the poison from his head.

“They saw you surrender your pride to a little girl.” The Outsider’s voice is sharp through the Void, imbued with a dark amusement. “Saw you bare your neck for your enemy’s fangs like a wounded dog. The bruises and the broken bones. They might even be watching now.”

That makes him freeze with his fingers on his collar, halfway through unbuttoning his vest. He scrutinizes the empty courtyard at his feet, tense like a string about to snap. The buildings on the other side aren’t that far away, half a street worth of roof from where anyone with the Arcane Bond could be spying on this side of the palace. He lowers his hand slowly.

“You know nothing about them.” he barks, but it sounds like a petty lie even to him. He can feel the poison pulsing in his veins, curling around his bones and drowning his control like smothering vines. He realizes he’s breathing faster. He _growls_. “Anything else to add to your pompous speech?”

The Outsider doesn’t reply. All the better. He looks up at the window that leads to his room, barely two floors above. He clenches his fist, feeling the songs from the Void burn bright in the lines of his Mark. His chest still feels tighter than it should, but it won’t be the first time he makes a transversal like this one under the effects of-

He misses. His fingertips scrape the edge of the window before he plummets to the balcony below, hitting the marble tiles violently with his shoulder. A flash of searing pain shoots through his back, leaving him breathless. He doesn’t make a sound. He crawls at the floor as he struggles to stand up shakily, barely feeling his arm beyond a sickening tingling as he reaches to feel the throbbing side of his face. The sudden dizziness sparked by the motion sends him staggering to the side. He leans heavily on the balustrade, shaking uncontrollably as if he’d pushed past his limit of drawing power from the Void. It’s impossible. It’s _absurd._

 _Weak old man_ , Billie’s voice mutters at the back of his neck. He spins around furiously, forcing himself to regain some control, to spot whoever’s watching from the roofs, from _everywhere_. _Who,_ the poison spits thoughts into his mess of a mind. _You’ll kill them all before they can betray you. It’s just more blood. It’s all just blood. A drop in an ocean._

_It’s in our nature._

Billie’s watching from the edge of the balcony, standing under the moonlight with blood gushing from the wound in her chest.

He retreats instinctively, stumbling into the dark hallway behind. Pain flashes in his chest, and his legs fail him, sending him staggering to the feet of the stairs. His heart’s hammering against his ribs like a knot of arrhythmic agony. He can’t breathe. He snarls and clings to the railings of carved wood, pushing himself up with arms he can’t feel, and _he knows she’s watching_. He takes a step, fighting to find air through the irregular beating of his heart. Then another. It takes him an eternity to reach the end of the stairs, but he can already glimpse the door to his quarters. He only needs a minute. One more minute and he can collapse on the floor never to wake up, but not _here._ Not for the maids to find like a poisoned rat writhing on the kitchen floor. Not for Emily _fucking_ Kaldwin to step over him with two of his Whalers by her side, on her way to the throne he won back for her.

As if Billie’s ghost couldn’t follow him there. As if it mattered at all.

He drags himself excruciatingly past the last marble steps and the ridiculously thick red carpet, then stops to catch his breath before reaching for the door handle. His gloves slip on it, and it snaps back into place with a loud metallic noise. He curses under his breath and summons all the strength he has left, pushing himself up enough to yank at it and push the door open.

He somehow manages to close the door before he collapses again. Then he allows his eyes to roll back into his skull and loses consciousness with a shuddering spasm.

 

It takes him nearly an hour, after he finally wakes up, to even manage to stand up. And then _after_ that, a long minute goes by before he can register someone’s knocking at his door in the middle of the night.

He stares at it blankly. The knocking stops. A low voice whispers from the other side.

“Sir? Are you alive?”

He opens his mouth to reply, then hesitates. He doesn’t _have_ to reply. He strongly suspects Thomas will still peek inside just to make sure he’s not bleeding out on his own carpet, but he could probably manage a short transversal to hide behind-

“Thomas.” he finds himself rasping out, to his horror. _Why_. Why on _Earth_ didn’t he just shut up? “Come in.”

The door opens just a bit too hastily. He can almost see his second physically emanating relief as he steps into the room, but it freezes on his face when he sees him.

So he looks _that_ bad, huh.

“What happened?” Thomas inquires hesitantly. He’s acting perfectly professional, but his voice betrays him, like he’s obviously trying too hard. “Are you hurt?”

Of course not. He closes his mouth and realizes he hasn’t said it out loud. He tries again, but he can’t seem to find his voice. His shoulders shake instead, and a choked sob spills between his lips in the place of words.

He can’t do this.

Thomas is rushing to his side before he can recover, clutching his eyes shut like a child terrified of the dark. Tears are staining his vision when he opens them. He looks at his hands to see them shaking, again. They’re never going to stop.

“Sir?” Thomas’ hand is on his shoulder suddenly, his voice soft.

“Don’t call me that.” he rasps out. “Not now.”

He can feel him hesitating.

“Daud.” Thomas ventures, lowering his voice. “Stop this. For all of us. Please.”

He means to reply; but the words get stuck in his throat, and he buries his face in his hands instead. His shoulders shake once, silently. Whatever strength left in him screams for him to recompose before he breaks. _Weak._ Thomas squeezes his shoulder gently.

“We’ll leave the city. Don’t do this for us. We chose to follow you anywhere; to Hell if necessary. We knew what we were doing.”

“You knew nothing. You were all kids.” Daud snaps back, growling. “I made you into this. I dragged you all into this shit life and you still _think_ you have to thank me for it-”

“You saved our lives.” Thomas interrupts him. “You gave us a family and a purpose. Most of us had never had a place to call home before. No one else bothered trying to help us.”

“I signed that contract. _I_ took the risk.” he spits. “I didn’t think about you once. I wanted to do better, _bigger_. Just to prove I could kill anyone. Kill an Empress. I’m not an idiot, Thomas. I knew the city would collapse, and I knew Attano was dangerous. I let half of you die on a whim.”

“I’m alive.”

He looks up. Thomas’ eyes are alight with honesty.

“I’d be a pile of bones sitting in the bottom of the Wrenhaven without you. No offense, sir, but that’s a pretty fucking big deal. I’m not letting you forget it. I don’t blame you.”

He steps closer, slowly. A single step, but suddenly they’re too close. Thomas licks his lips, then looks away. Daud can sense the weakness in his eyes, but he knows he won’t move any closer. He’s too good a man for that. He barely deserves his respect, much less this. Much less anything but hatred.

And still. And _still_ , here he is. And it’s intoxicating, even if it claws his pride open. Something that isn’t harm. Someone that doesn’t look _hungry_ when they glimpse weakness in him, ready to stand over the broken shards of the Knife of Dunwall –so great, so terrifying, the remains of a withering legend clinging to a thinning rope. How long left until he can’t hold the pieces together? How hard will he _fall?_

Not long left now.

It wouldn't be this bad if it weren't his _body_ failing him. If he didn't know there's nothing he can do to fix this, no matter how big or bad he thinks he is. Any day now he'll sink to his knees and feel his heart shattering like glass, and no mercy in the world will be able to keep him alive. No witches to kill. No redemption. Only a last fluttering beat before the end.

He was supposed to die _fighting_ , dammit.

“I don’t blame you.” Thomas repeats, meeting his eyes. “We all made our own mistakes. This isn’t your fault.”

Later, he won’t remember if it was the words that did it, or if he simply ran out of strength to be rational. He meets Thomas’ lips with a quiet violence, pushing him back and following his lean shape with his. He looks surprised at first, before wrapping his arms around him with a low sigh, welcoming his touch. It makes guilt blossom in his chest like vines made of teeth and tar.

 _How long_ , he thinks. _How long have you been wanting this? How much of it was respect before it turned into this?_

He catches his wrists with his hands and pins them against the wall, deepens the kiss. He’s demanding, but Thomas meets his lips hungrily, breathing hitched suddenly. He moans when Daud's lips move on to his neck, tilting his head back to give him more access; his skin is warm against his tongue, his pulse racing beneath. He clutches his coat when Daud releases his hands, pulling him closer with burning want. Their bodies press together, chasing the friction. Thomas breathes out his name; he shuts him up with his own mouth.

Footsteps pass them by out in the hallway as they roll their hips together, destabilizing each other with choked groans. Thomas' long fingers snake their way between their stomachs, cupping him through his clothes. Daud groans, rocking his hips into the touch, and the footsteps come to a halt. They freeze in unison, breathing irregularly. After a long moment, whoever's in the hallway resumes their way.

“So much for stealth.” Daud murmurs. Thomas snorts.

“It’s court. They make the walls thin on purpose.”

“They can take a seat and bear it then.” Daud growls, claiming his mouth again. Thomas melts against him, parting his lips automatically. Daud unbuttons his vest with deft fingers, but runs out of patience quick and yanks open the shirt beneath. The pale skin is as peppered with freckles as the rest of it, crossed by old scars. His teeth graze Thomas' throat down to his collarbone, leaving marks that carry his name. He bites down in time as he rolls his hips, eliciting a shuddering gasp.

Thomas' fingers shake slightly as they work to unbutton his trousers; enough to slide inside and close around his cock, squeezing once. His eyes travel up to meet Daud's, his face flushed and imbued with a deep longing.

“Sir.” he breathes. “ _Please_.”

“Turn around.” he orders. Thomas gives him a half-smirk and obeys without question, resting both hands on the wall.

There’s more than a few tricks one learns when all you can keep in your poor excuse of a hiding place is your own gear, no more than whatever you can take with you when the Watch storms into the place. One of them is that the cheap oil they use to clean pistols serves for a _whole_ lot of things. He reaches for the flask, but his fingertips brush over the handle of his dagger on their way.

He stops.

“Wait.” he rasps out. Thomas seems to sense something in his voice- he turns to face him, a note of concern in his eyes. Daud unsheathes the dagger and presses it to his hands. Thomas blinks at it, realization furrowing his brow. Daud clenches his jaw, avoiding his gaze.

“Sir-“

“Just shallow cuts. You don’t have to do more if you don’t want to.” he says abruptly, feeling his mouth dry. “Please.”

There’s an instant of heavy silence. His second’s eyes are hard when he looks up at him. His finger close around the handle, but he tosses it aside instead. It hits the floor with a trembling clang.

“No. You need to stop this. You don’t deserve it.”

Daud steps away brusquely. He feels rage rush up his throat like vomit.

“Get out of here.” he hisses. His hands are shaking again.

“Let me help you, Daud, please. You can’t keep-“

“Get _out,_ Thomas.”

“Sir-“

“ _Out_!” he roars, shoving him towards the door. Thomas stumbles away, visibly hurt. He reaches out, but Daud is already transversing away. He fades with a rustle, and shadows dishevel in the empty air behind him for a single, quiet second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	10. Cacophony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah, it's been too long. I was busy with exams and travels, and this chapter was a bitch to write on top of it, but I can't keep rewriting little bits in hopes it magically becomes perfect; sorry for taking millenia to publish it.  
> Having said that, I hope you enjoy this new issue of rainy, unending agony~♪

The quiet thunder of shots coming from Coldridge signals the death of another night. The sound is even louder from the roofs above the Tower, pulsing through the city like the beat of a rotten heart. Daud doesn’t move, staring at the whitening sky with his exhaustion worn like a last armour around him, but the bullets' voice resonates deep within his bones all the same. He finds a snowflake on the back of his hand. For once, they don’t fall in silence. Each of them hits the ground with a bang, dying louder than they’ve lived. Like everyone in Dunwall.

Winter is here to stay.

Who, he wonders. Whose corpse is hitting the ground as silence reverberates through Dunwall like the toll of a silent bell? Who’s the poor fucker who was just granted execution, unaware of how _lucky_ they are not to see another morning? He doesn’t know what’s worse. Jealousy, or fear, or having to sit and listen and being too much of a coward to put his head against the barrel of every gun in Dunwall himself.

He stands, feeling the tension in his muscles mix with the dull ache of cold in his bones. He can’t remember how many hours he’s been here, immobile. He can’t remember when was the last time he slept, either. The poison’s long gone from his veins, but now its absence hangs heavy over him like a gravestone. His broken finger hurts like a bitch.

He stares down at the courtyard with empty eyes. The last night shift changes places with guards that look exactly the same. They never seem to change, like they somehow share a brief existence that doesn’t go beyond letting people like him step over their corpses everytime war reshapes the world. Same faces, same names. They drink the same brand of whiskey. They die the same. Their blood is always the same colour on his hands.

They should be grateful not to fucking _matter._

He absently spots two Whalers making their way through the courtyard, rubbing their arms and stomping on the thin layer of frost that covers the ground to chase the cold away. He’s supposed to be there for training in two minutes, but they rarely bother to arrive early.

Then they stop to motion at someone following their steps, and he notices who’s with them.

Attano. Who else. He must’ve gotten bored of watching from the balconies.

It doesn’t bother him as much as he would’ve expected. He's in his right; they're working for _his_ daughter, in _his_ palace, and he rarely misses a chance to wordlessly make that clear. It’s just another annoying piece of this decadent, predictable shit his days have become.

He transverses down to a lower ledge, and feels the flash of pain stealing his breath straight from his chest as his heart literally skips a beat. He chains one more, maneuvering in thin air as he falls to land on both feet without a sound. Three more Whalers have emerged from the palace doors, shaking under the early snow, and the small crowd welcomes him with tired nods, mumbled greetings and a rare ‘good morning'. Attano doesn’t seem to pay much attention to him, frowning at the poor amount of Whalers that stand in the courtyard as if he _cared_ how many he’s left alive. Half of them are late, as always, and it suddenly makes his blood boil.

He doesn’t spare a word, stepping into the circle with firm steps. He catches Thomas' averted gaze as he walks past him, a glimpse of sudden concern. Whatever he’s seen in his eyes, he couldn’t care less about. He’s had enough pity.

 _You were never weak,_ a voice he’d almost forgotten replaces his ghosts. Wild flowers. _You’re the only one left standing. You’re blood drawn and gone unpunished._

Gentle hands ruffle his hair through the decades. The Void bleeds through his Mark, fueled by the hunger of poison, the exhaustion turned sharpness. The pain. His heart aches, stuck on a beat between his ribs.

This isn’t going to end well.

His gaze is glassy, far away from Dunwall. If the Whalers seem to sense anything different in him, he’s not paying attention. He looks anywhere but their faces, wondering which of them were watching him fall apart last night, if any of them were. Cowards. All cowards. He’s seen their looks. Their muffled conversations. Young, stupid kids with no guts to go through with it to the end. None of them like Billie. The sound of his sword sliding from its sheath slices the morning silence in half. Attano meets his gaze from where he’s standing, only a few steps away from the circle. Watching. Assessing.

He’s probably wondering too, like the rest of them. The question that hangs over him like a noose since the day Billie _nearly_ achieved the impossible.

“Daud.” he greets with his ragged voice.

“You.” he motions at Zachary with his head, ignoring him. “First.”

The Whaler blinks, momentarily taken aback by the unfamiliarity in his voice. He draws his own sword and steps into the circle, makes for a simple attack.

Daud doesn’t give him time to think better. He strides forward, stopping the blow with a burst of strength. Zachary recoils, taken by surprise, and he’s barely able to stop the next blow. He backs away, clumsily managing to keep Daud’s sword from reaching him once, twice, until instinct isn’t enough and a kick to the stomach sends him staggering to the frozen ground.

“You.” Daud orders coldly, pointing at Hobson without even waiting for Zachary to get to his feet. She steps forward automatically, sword already on her hand. The other Whalers are deadly quiet, unsure if they’re supposed to be cheering or as still as dead men. Zachary’s retreating with a wince when Daud fixes a burning glare on him.

“Did I tell you to go anywhere?”

He freezes, then takes a proper hold of his sword again. Hobson narrows her eyes and attacks.

She’s quicker than Zachary. Than most of them, actually; and she’s getting better really fast. Keeping both of them at bay proves exactly as hard as he’d expected –not enough. He hits Hobson in the head with the handle of his sword and disarms Zachary with a single swing, spinning to shove him away.

“Did you leave the Void at the barracks? _Are you two asleep?!_ ” he roars, tossing Zachary’s sword back at him brusquely. He sees Hobson charging at him from the left and clenches his fist, making the Void pull her past him and slam her against the ground. His heart stutters a beat of flashing agony. His hands twitch, but he doesn’t let go.

Two more Whalers have joined the circle around them, quickly learning that absolute silence is the best option. The fight becomes a blur of transversals and quick feints. They’re his best fighters besides Thomas, and he feels a pang of proud when Hobson’s blade slices a line of blood across his cheek before he can back away –but it’s an empty feeling, and it evolves into rage the second she stops short at the sight of blood, hesitating for the first time since he’s known her. _Weak._ He grunts and counterattacks in a flash of shadow, and the next second she’s stumbling away with an injured leg.

Anger makes up for strength. He disarms Zachary twice more before he throws his sword out of the way. Hobson falls shortly after, and he kicks hers away from her hand while she’s down. They stare at him, unsure if they’re supposed to stand up and keep going. Hobson holds her hand against her chest, biting back the tears of pain.

Daud looks up. He’s panting already, tense and worryingly pale; but when he glares at the circle his eyes are burning iron. He wipes cold sweat from his forehead with a grimace. His gaze lands on Jenkins.

“You.” he orders. “Now.”

The Whaler jolts in his place. He takes a hesitant step forward, painfully aware of where this is heading. His footing is as bad as always.

“Can I try?” Corvo chimes in suddenly, and all eyes shoot to him instead. Daud gives him an icy look.

“Did I ask for a voluntary, bodyguard?”

Corvo blinks, surely surprised he has completely renounced to feigning good manners.

“I thought you’d like a rematch.” he offers instead, playing along.

“Don’t you have any death sentences to sign?”

Corvo narrows his eyes, but doesn’t push further. A terrible silence follows. Daud clicks his tongue dismissively and turns to Jenkins.

“On guard.”

 

Corvo follows their movements closely, as if his vision is failing him. Watching the Whalers train has traitorously become a habit –first to make sure he knew their strategies by heart, then because it was more entertaining than signing mountains of contracts.

 _This_ is new. Daud is never this ruthless. He watches as the Whaler he's sparring with hits the ground for the third time in less than a minute. He’s barely managed to push himself up when Daud is over him already, shouting inches away from his face. He’s seen him do this to the younger novices, on the rare occasions he trains them personally -making sure they’re committed enough to swallow a retort- but never to _veterans._ There’s only one grey suit among the dark blue. These are his best men.

The man takes it without as much as a flinch. Two different Whalers take his place as he retreats into the circle, limping on an injured ankle. The dance restarts, Void and blades clashing intertwined. Daud moves like a ghostly beast, liquid red flashing among the metal as if he were born from the fresh blood of battle wounds. Snow doesn’t even touch him. Two steps to the left always followed by a swing, a slow movement meant to distract. One of the Whalers falls right into the trap, and Daud’s knee collides with their stomach. He shouts something, and a third Whaler steps into the circle hesitatingly. Then a fourth.

The fight is a storm now. He can feel the pull of the Void tingling on the back of his hand, drawing him closer. He only realizes he’s leaning forward when he has to take a step not to lose his balance. Another Whaler joins the fight, followed by the remaining three, and he suddenly realizes what this is. A short, wild laugh burns his throat.

The answer to the unspoken question. Daud’s sword flashes as it stops inches away from their necks. Most of them would have died twice already. The message is as clear as it could be. How many of them would it really take to kill him? Not even all of them. Not even the _best_ of them. _Try by yourselves._

Then Daud’s eyes land on him, challenging, and something silent unleashes. He steps into the fight without a second thought, drowning in the call of the Void. He’s been here before, following Daud with his sword as darkness rules his thoughts, aiming for the red among the dull colours. Blades and memories clash in unison. He fails to predict his steps twice before he understands he has never learned his strategies at all, and he can’t help but wonder if they're aiming to kill. They’re the only two left standing, and anything beyond the fight are but blurred consequences. It would only take a second.

He barely notices when it stops. He glimpses the flash of a smaller blade before it’s pressed against his throat. The dance freezes. Warm blood trickles down his neck. The Void pulses through his veins, ready to blink away, but the knife doesn’t move.

The Whalers begin pushing themselves up, reaching for their fallen swords. Daud is breathing heavily, with loose strands of hair stuck to his forehead, and his whole body is shaking except the hand that holds the knife. His eyes are empty.

He takes a step back, lowers his arm. Then he collapses to his knees, clutching his chest, sways and hits the ground limply.

Corvo’s breath gets caught in his throat as the shouting slams him back into reality. He blinks to exile the Void from his head and takes a deep breath as the Whalers rush to Daud’s side, shoving him aside.

 _Is he dying?,_ Jessamine whispers to him from the inside of his coat, and it freezes his blood in his veins. _Is he dead?_

Jenkins has knelt next to Daud, shouting orders as he yanks the coat open.

“It’s his heart!” he hears him say, all traces of rage long forgotten. “I need to be quick! Dodge, help me with this-“

Jenkins freezes mid-sentence. Looks closer. Then he turns to stare at him, and the deep hatred being born in his eyes lacks any sign of mercy. He returns his attention to Daud without a word, his hands moving over the mess of scars and bruises, pressing down through the bandages stained with fresh red from reopened wounds. His skin is a map of suffering. Dark, thick cuts spell _MURDERER_ across his chest.

Guilt settles in his stomach as he takes in the horrified rage that washes over the Whalers. Their expressions shift at once, their eyes landing on him with the weight of a death sentence, and his head spins with the absence of poison. He doesn't remember making half of those wounds. He can't even recall if it was him holding the knife.

He can’t see Daud’s face. He steps closer automatically, almost enthralled. _Is he breathing?_ Someone shoves him back suddenly, yelling. He recognizes her. Hobson’s face is contorted with hatred as she roars at him to stay away. A different Whaler holds her arm before she can reach her sword.

There's no need. She wouldn't be able to stop him.

It’s not the first time he considers putting Daud out of his misery. The thought plagues his mind every day from dawn to dusk, and never out of mercy. His fingers always find a way to slide towards his sword when the assassin turns his back, brush the tip of a dart every time he fumbles for a cigarette in the empty hallways, thinking he’s alone. The man who set fire to the world. The monster who took her away.

_He's dying._

“Is he going to be okay?” one of the younger Whalers asks in a trembling voice.

“Hold him still! Dodge, dammit, help me!"

“Is he dead?” Corvo blurts out, feeling the echo of Jessamine’s words on his lips. The Whalers shove him away again when he tries to come closer. Two of them try to grab his arms, but he shakes them off violently. He can see a glimpse of Daud’s hands, twisted, bloodied fingernails digging into the frost. “Is he dead yet?!”

"For fuck's sake, get Attano out of here!"

"You really ought to stay away, _lord Protector._ " a different Whaler comments coldly, standing in his way. Jessamine's voice pulses through his chest.

_Make sure._

His sword hand twitches. He counts the Whalers around him unconsciously; not enough to stop him in time. He could take a few of them out before they even knew what he was doing. Seconds slip by excruciatingly.

_I want to see his face._

He doesn’t move. Jessamine’s heart drums against his chest, demanding. He can almost feel her hands resting on his arms, tugging at him. Her voice is louder, _clearer_ than ever, and for once, her words sound like an _answer_. It makes his legs weak, his heart ache. Jessamine. _Jessamine._ If she can hear him, if she can really hear him-

“Jess?” he calls in a trembling whisper.

_Let me see him._

The copper wires of the Heart lash at his skin, sinking into the flesh. He chokes on a breath and stumbles forward. He unsheathes his sword with numb fingers, eyes blown wide with pain and horror; it slips from his fingers and clangs against the ground. He forces himself to step backwards, holding the dead heart against himself with both hands, careful not to harm it.

“Jess.” he groans. The wires sink deeper. He shudders. "Jessamine, it's me."

_Let me see him die._

“Everyone step back! He’s breathing!”

There’s a thunderous mix of voices. He sees Daud roll to a side among the legs of his Whalers, gasping for air. The Heart lets go, and the spell breaks. He takes a sharp breath, bringing a hand to his chest to feel the weight of it, the dull ache of the wound. He steps back shakily, barely feeling his legs. He can’t feel her anymore.

“Love?” he whispers, almost fearful of his own ragged voice. Silence. He lowers his tone, listens closely. “Jess?”

There’s no response.

The winter wind carries her absence across the courtyard, slicing right through him. The emptiness in his chest wakes up, as deep and torn as the first day. As if it had ever gone away.

He waits. In the end, he clenches his jaw and bends down to recover his sword. He sees the Whalers staring at him in sharp alert when he stands up. There's nothing in their eyes but dark hunger.

It won’t be the first time they think him mad, either.

“Deranged fuck. I should’ve known.” Hobson hisses, breaking the silence. She's gripping her sword so tight her knuckles are white. “He’ll jump at every chance to finish the job. Won’t you, weeper?”

She spits the last word like it’s poison as she attempts to stride forward, but Galia yanks her back by her arm, cursing loudly. Hobson roars at her.

“Let go of me! I’m gonna cut this lying pig’s tongue! Look at what he did! How can you breathe the same air as him?!”

“Back away, Hob! I swear to the Void, you’re gonna get us all killed!”

“We need to get him to Sokolov, if you’ve finished bickering.” Jenkins interrupts them sharply, still crouched next to Daud. “There’s only so much I can do.”

Hobson shrugs off Galia’s hands and glares openly at Corvo. He stares back with the eyes of a dead man.

“If that’s okay with the Lord Protector.” Jenkins adds with icy politeness.

Corvo lowers his gaze at the blade in his hand, apparently only realizing he’s holding it.

“Get him into the palace.” he rasps out, recomposing. “He’s not dying anytime soon.”

He spins his blade between his fingers in a flourish, folds it into the handle and slowly returns it to his belt.

It occurs to him he's inadvertently declared war on a small army of trained assassins who know every corner of the palace; who Emily insists on _trusting._ The illusion of safety that hangs over the tower fades abruptly, and the fragile alliance that kept the Whalers relatively harmless shatters forever. Emily's in danger. The bloodstained peace they've won for Dunwall is in danger. Memories of the dark weeks after Coldridge come back to him like the blow of a hammer. The city holds its breath at the brink of an abyss, ready to spin back into madness.

And again, he's fighting alone.

When he looks up, he sees Hobson staring back. Her eyes are wells of bleeding anger.

“You’re a dead man, Attano.” she grunts, and spits at his feet. “A dead man.”

 

Daud wakes up to a flash of lamplight hitting his eyes. He sits up brusquely, automatically taking hold of whoever’s leaning over him. There’s an alarmed curse. His head spins, but he reaches for the knife he keeps under his pillow anyways. His fingers close on thin air. A strong hand holds his arm down.

“I need my Royal Physician alive.” Corvo’s voice rumbles next to him. He blinks, and sees the blur of his shape to his right.

“Do you?” he grunts back hoarsely.

“Always a pleasure to see you alive and well.” Sokolov coughs. Daud hears him stepping away from the bed. “I’d say he’s recovering.”

Daud tugs his arm free, groaning as he blinks to clear his vision. It's still early; the morning chill makes itself felt even indoors, and the sun has barely managed to light the deep grey of the sky. It can't have been more than an hour since he passed out.

"Leave us, Anton." Corvo pulls the ghost of a smile. Sokolov nods and bows his head slightly before leaving the room. His eyes linger on Daud for the lapse of a second. Only then does he realize the man is unusually quiet.

He realizes his coat is missing, piled with his gear on the nightstand. His shirt is open. He closes the fabric over his chest instinctively, covering the wounds. Sokolov's seen them too, apparently. He wonders how he can find the nerve to judge _anything_.

"Your Whalers want my head on a plate." Corvo comments as the door closes. His voice lowers. "Emily's away from the palace with someone I trust until we assess the situation."

It's a poor explanation. Daud can see the spark of paranoia in his eyes, the way his every muscle is ready to make a run for the window.

"They won't move a finger without my permission." he grumbles, wincing as he tries to take a deep breath.

"You were wrong."

"Don't fucking dare talk in riddles this early, Attano." he grunts, absently looking for his cigarette case. Corvo pulls it out of one of his own pockets and hands it to him. He glares at him, and for once the bodyguard manages to look slightly contrite.

"About your men." he explains. "They saved your life."

He knows Attano's right. It's been an odd revelation, and it does more to keep the darkness in his thoughts at bay than he lets show. He remembers Jenkins' face when he saw the scars, the pang of fear freezing his features. Hobson's rage being swept away by worry the moment she saw him fall. The Whalers standing between Attano and him, reaching for their swords.

He remembers that, too. Corvo stepping closer with a blade in his hand, before his own men denied him the simple mercy of a quick death. To _save_ him. He stares silently at the cigarette between his fingers, then hands it to the bodyguard.

"I don't smoke." he states simply. "I'm just fond of picking your pockets. It's harder."

"You were an orphan in Karnaca and you don't smoke?" Daud huffs in disbelief, still holding the cigarette in his direction. "Take a drag, for hell's sake."

Corvo accepts it reluctantly. He brings it to his lips tentatively, and chokes on the smoke in his first attempt, coughing loudly. Daud snorts.

"I better be going." Corvo growls, giving back the cigarette with teary eyes as he heads for the door.

"By the way." Daud calls as he takes a long drag. When Corvo turns around, he flashes a sharp smile. "The next time you pick my pockets, I'll shoot your hands off."

Corvo smiles back briefly, in his own unreadable and insufferable way -but the gesture is gone when he opens the door, swallowed by exhaustion. Daud isn't watching when he steps into the hallway, and it's the sound that makes him look up. Steel and flesh.

Corvo stumbles back into the room, with a blade sunk into his stomach. His hand misses his blade as he collapses to his knees, but Daud is on his feet before he hits the floor, taking hold of his pistol. He freezes before he can aim, as the world finally steps over the edge of the abyss.

The silhouette of a Whaler stares back at him from the doorway.

" _Guards!_ " Attano roars from the ground. Someone replies from the hallway. The Whaler turns his head to the noise and steps back, fading away with a flash of the Void. Daud is at Corvo's side in an instant, slapping the bodyguard's shaky hands away from the blade protruding from his body. His thoughts move too fast, refusing to take in the colossal mess this is. It's _war._

"Don't. Let me." he barks, taking hold of it and pulling it off as cleanly as he can manage. Attano hisses in pain and collapses against him, clutching the wound. Blood stains his hands.

"Emily." he grunts, grabbing his arm. "I need to find Emily-"

"Daud!" someone cries from the hallway. There's too much noise. Too many sudden voices.

"...if I was supposed to trust these bloody traitors!"

"Find the other one! Shoot him on sight!"

"Don't move." Daud snarls at Corvo, shaking his hands off to stand, holding his pistol. His head spins, pulsing white pain as he storms out of the room, only to see a mess of guards cornering a single Whaler at the near end of the hallway. Zachary. He's not wearing his mask, and meets his gaze with a mix of confusion and fear.

"Daud, I tried to-" he stammers. Curnow aims his pistol.

The bullet hits him straight in the heart.

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language, so there might be random weird-sounding phrases scattered over this. But it's the first work completely in English I dare post out there, so fuck it, I'm having the time of my life. Although if you spot any mispells/whatever you'd do me a great favour by warning me.
> 
> Let me tell you- it's not gonna be a happy ride.


End file.
